


They Never Quite Leave

by kiwikero



Series: Ghosts in the Attic [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Famous Harry, Ghost Hunters, Ghost Louis, Ghost Sex, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Just Roll With It, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Famous Louis, Sexuality, Voyeurism, casper au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwikero/pseuds/kiwikero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Liam Payne inherited his great aunt's mansion, he never expected it to be haunted. With the help of famous ghost hunters Harry and Niall, Liam is hoping to evict the ghost and sell the house once and for all.</p><p>There's just one problem: Louis has been in that house for a hundred years, and he doesn't much feel like leaving.</p><p>Alternatively; come for the ghost sex, stay for the feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Never Quite Leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patdkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patdkitten/gifts).



> First off, thank you so much patdkitten for the prompts. I was thrilled to get to pinch hit for you, and this prompt stood out to me right away. You asked for a Casper AU, and I gave you Casper meets Ghost Adventures, though I promise Harry is less of a tool than Zak Bagans.
> 
> The house in the story is a real house, though as I'm American, it is based off an American Victorian house. They're just so beautifully creepy, I couldn't resist. It's also actually for sale, and I fell in love with it while writing about it. *sigh*
> 
> I have never been to Ampleforth. My lovely Britpicker suggested it as a small town in Yorkshire. I am using the village in name only.
> 
> This is very different from anything I've ever written, but I hope you all enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks to my brilliant beta, [Sarah](http://althoughiambroken.tumblr.com), and my lovely Britpicker, [KK](http:/waytoomanypeopleintheaddisonlee.tumblr.com). You guys rock. <3
> 
> Just for the record, I actually like the show Bar Rescue.
> 
> Title comes from "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng:  
>  _And of course I forgive_  
>  _I've seen how you live_  
>  _Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes_  
>  _You pick up the pieces_  
>  _And the ghosts in the attic_  
>  _They never quite leave._
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

Great Aunt Ida showed up in Liam’s life like the flu: once a year, and leaving him feeling exhausted and in need of some fresh air. She was a formidable woman, often draping her bulk in furs and pearls and enough perfume to suffocate smaller creatures (Liam highly suspected that was the fate of one Mister Whiskers). She lived on her own in a restored Victorian mansion in Ampleforth, where she played Solitaire and collected porcelain cat figurines until the day she died.

Which was, coincidentally, just a few months ago.

Ida never married, never had any offspring; still, Liam was surprised to discover she had named him as her heir. He inherited her home, enough money to fix it up and get himself out of debt, and a clatter of cat statuettes in every size, shape, and colour.

The house was outdated, but not terribly so, and Liam planned to sell it for a decent sum and buy himself something a little more modern. The faded, stained carpeting reeked of her favoured perfume and there were large, rectangle patches on the walls where paintings hung undisturbed for many years, but those were simple cosmetic fixes.

The house’s reputation, however, would be a touch harder to repair.

If you asked Ida Payne, she would have insisted that she lived there completely alone, with no staff or spouse, for the many decades she owned the home. If you asked the locals, they would tell you she was sadly mistaken.

For, you see, the old Payne Mansion was rumoured to be haunted.

“It’s not a rumour,” a carpenter argued, standing at the edge of the lawn and staunchly refusing to go any closer. “It _is_ haunted. Me dad retiled the kitchen back in the eighties, and he swears on my nan’s grave that something started chucking tiles at him from across the room.”

He wasn’t the only one. Plumbers, painters, decorators… Each one had a story, though always secondhand: their dad or their cousin or their mum’s hairdresser—each had heard of the spirit terrorising the mansion and could not be convinced to test their mettle against the supernatural.

Liam thought there must be something in the water.

He decided to stay at the house himself for a night, partly to go over some designs that the carpenter (from two towns over, mind) had left for him, and partly to prove to the gullible idiots in the village that there was nothing in the house any scarier than the garish décor.

(Two words: velvet drapes.)

Settled in front of the telly with a beer and his iPad, Liam kicked up his feet and found some ghost hunting show with a stupid name to watch, just for fun. He rolled his eyes at the people on the screen, jumping at every little creak and groan like they’d never set foot in an old, not-haunted house before. People would believe anything nowadays, as evidenced by the kinds of sad sacks who would actually resort to calling in ghost hunters. _I’ll show them,_ Liam thought to himself, finishing off his beer and settling back in the recliner. _The only ghost in this house is Aunt Ida’s perfume cloud._

He must have nodded off at some point, because he woke with a start to the television clicking off. He sat up, rubbing at the crick in his neck from sleeping in a recliner, and frowned at the telly. “I didn’t set a timer,” he murmured, throwing the quilt off of him to go and investigate; perhaps he’d just blown a fuse.

Although, he definitely hadn’t covered himself up before he fell asleep, either.

Liam stared at the quilt with wide eyes. He’d recognise the bold green and white pattern anywhere—it was the one Great Aunt Ida kept folded neatly at the foot of her bed.

Which was upstairs, at the far end of the hall.

He flung the quilt away as if it was full of spiders, leaping out of the recliner and glancing nervously around the room. “Hello?” he called, wincing at the tremor in his voice. “If this is someone’s idea of a prank, it’s not funny and you are trespassing!”

A giggle sounded from somewhere behind him, but when Liam spun around there was no one there.

“Who are you?” he demanded, slowly edging his way toward the door. It could be a robber instead of a prank, and he didn’t particularly care to be alone with an intruder in either case. “I’m calling the police!” He was nearly to the door when a cold chill ran down his spine, and Liam turned around slowly with the knowledge that he was not going to like whatever was behind him.

There, just a metre away, stood a man. He looked to be about Liam’s age, though his clothing was a bit outdated. He had a cocky grin on his face and his hands resting on his hips.

He was also quite obviously transparent.

A scream crawled its way up Liam’s throat but died in his mouth, no sound emerging but a muffled squeak. If this was a prank, it was a damn good one, but he wasn’t about to stick around to find out. He took a few unsteady steps backwards, closer and closer to the door, and all the while the stranger watched on with an amused look on his pale face.

Then, faster than a blink, he was directly in Liam’s face, so close that Liam could make out the pale blue of his eyes and the freckles dotting his translucent cheeks.

“Boo,” the apparition whispered, and Liam ran out of there faster than he ever had in his entire life.

\-----

“This is the place!”

Harry pulled the car to a stop in the circular driveway, craning his neck to look out the window and up at the structure before him. It was a traditional Victorian, three stories tall and in relatively good condition for being over a century old. A large white porch wrapped around the ground level, and a dozen dark windows peered down at them like sleepy eyes, each outfitted with royal blue shutters.

Basically, it looked haunted as hell, and Harry couldn’t wait to get inside.

“Whoa,” Niall commented, pushing open his door and stepping out onto the paved drive. “Haz, I’m not saying this is a creepy murder house, but it sure looks like a creepy murder house.” He turned to Harry, now out of the car as well, with a broad smile stretching his cheeks.

Harry grinned right back before turning his attention back to the house, taking it in from the tower-like structure on the right to the slightly unkempt rose bushes ringing the porch. “It’s perfect,” he agreed, already itching to get inside and scope the place out.

They were in the middle of pulling bags of equipment out of the boot when another car eased into the drive, parking in front of the detached garage. Out stepped a man in his early thirties with short brown hair and dark eyes, a five o’clock shadow dusting his jaw. He strode over to them with his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks, looking a bit like a uni professor if Harry was being honest.

“Mr. Styles!” the man greeted, pulling out a hand and offering it to Harry. “I’m Liam Payne. I’m so glad you’ve come.” His smile was as genuine as the tone of his voice.

Harry took the proffered hand, releasing it shortly after. Liam’s palm was warm and damp, though Harry couldn’t say if it was the house or himself agitating the man’s nerves.

“Harry Styles,” Harry replied in what Niall liked to call his ‘TV star voice.' Harry preferred to call it his ‘professional voice.’ “We’re thrilled to be here. This is my cameraman, Niall Horan.” He indicated the blond man with a tilt of his head.

At the mention of his name, Niall bounded over like an eager dog. “Pleased to meet ya,” he said, giving Liam’s hand an enthusiastic shake, his Irish accent thicker in his excitement.

Liam looked between the men, then down at the large mound of gear piled on the asphalt. “That’s a lot of equipment,” he commented curiously.

Niall’s chest puffed out; their assortment of equipment was his specialty. “Oh, yeah: cameras, digital recorders, mics.” He picked up a bag and dumped it into a surprised Liam’s arms. “Here, give us a hand, will ya? We’ll haul this in and you can give us a tour.”

Liam’s face paled at the comment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “T-tour?”

“Yeah, of the house,” Harry explained, shouldering a couple bags. “Especially any areas where activity has been reported. We’d also like to record an interview with you, though it doesn’t have to be today.” He couldn’t help but notice the way Liam’s eyes darted nervously toward the house, his body leaning almost imperceptibly away as if to give him that much more distance. “Is that all right?” Harry asked gently.

“Yes, of course, it’s just…” Liam sighed, clutching the camera bag closer to his chest. “I’ve tried to go inside as little as possible since That Night.”

Harry could practically hear the capital letters in Liam’s voice. He nodded sympathetically. “I understand, Mr. Payne, but you have nothing to worry about. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like you have a perfectly routine haunting, and the spirit is likely harmless.” He raised an eyebrow when Liam gave a soft chuckle at his words.

“Sorry, just, ‘routine haunting’ is not something I’m used to hearing,” Liam admitted, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He reluctantly looked back to the house, his jaw working as if he was chewing at his lip. “You really think it’s harmless?”

Harry smiled, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Let me put it this way: your aunt lived here for years and never mentioned it once. Surely she would have moved if the ghost was malevolent.”

Liam snorted at that. “You didn’t know my Aunt Ida,” he said, the smile returning to his face once more. “Trust me, it’s the ghost who would have moved.”

\-----

The interior of the house was beautifully decorated, striking a perfect balance between new and old. There was fresh paint on the walls and modern appliances gracefully mixed with antique furnishings and the original hardwood floors. Niall set down his bags in the foyer with a low whistle.

Harry had to agree; the house was something else. In front of him was a gorgeous staircase, and the rooms he could see leading off of the foyer were just as magnificent as the one he was stood in. He counted at least three fireplaces, and that was just what he could see from the front door. It felt both too grand and like somewhere that could be a home, and Harry could see why someone might die there and choose to never leave.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Liam asked, turning around to take in the awed expressions on Harry and Niall’s faces. “Everything is updated and move-in ready, even though no one local would agree to work on it. Too afraid of the stories,” he explained.

Harry nodded, setting down his bag and rifling through it for his small, handheld camcorder. “We’d like a list of some of those names, if you don’t mind,” he said, turning on the camcorder and strolling around the foyer, making sure to sweep the lens up the massive chestnut staircase. He motioned to Niall, who pulled out a roll of masking tape and made an X on the floor with it.

“Of course,” Liam agreed, watching the men work curiously. “What is the tape for?”

Niall ripped off another strip, marking a spot looking into the parlour. “Camera locations,” he explained. “We’ll mark them off during the tour and then get set up while it’s still daylight. That way we’re ready to film when the sun goes down.”

Liam shuddered at that. “I can’t believe you’re going to be here all night with the lights out. I don’t even want to be in here during the day anymore.” He blanched and stiffened, turning to look at Harry with wide brown eyes. “Wait. I don’t have to stay here with you, do I?”

Lowering the camera, Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the sheer terror contorting Liam’s features. “No, it’ll just be me and Ni. The fewer of us there are, the easier it is to keep track of the sounds we make and the sounds, well, something else does.” Harry gestured to the parlour, where a set of green upholstered chairs and a matching sofa ringed one of the fireplaces. “Actually, why don’t we have a seat and go over the procedure and paperwork before we get started?”

Liam agreed, showing Harry and Niall to the sitting area before disappearing into the kitchen to make tea. He came back with a steaming teapot and three mugs, a little sugar dish and a carafe of milk all piled on an antique tray. “I wasn’t sure how you took it,” he explained, setting the tray down on one of the wooden end tables.

“Just black for me, thanks,” Harry said, taking the cup Liam handed him and blowing across the surface to cool it. He’d no sooner brought it to his lips to take a testing sip than a loud crash made him jump, scalding tea sloshing over the rim and soaking into his trousers.

“What the hell?” Niall swore, looking down at where the sugar dish now rested, spilling its contents out over the rug.

“It’s always the sugar,” Liam muttered, bending to gather up the little bowl and inspecting it for damage. “Least it didn’t break this time.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at that. “This has happened before?” he asked, finally able to taste his tea.

Liam sighed, taking his own cup and settling down on the sofa. “Every time I try to serve someone tea, the sugar dish gets broken or knocked over. Or, once, is nowhere to be seen for days, then shows up in the post box one day with all the sugar missing.” He added a splash of milk to his tea, holding up the carafe thoughtfully. “No problems with the milk, though.”

“Weird,” Niall commented, settling on having milk in his as well. “Maybe your ghost was a dentist or something’.”

Harry tried to think of a joke about ghost dentists, not realising Niall and Liam were looking at him expectantly until the former reached over and slapped him on the knee. “Oh, right, business,” Harry said sheepishly, cheeks going red as he reached for his bag and pulled out a manila folder. “We already have all your paperwork signed, but I have a copy of everything if you’d like to see it or have any questions.” To have his aunt’s house on the show, Liam had been required to sign a release, as well as a form waiving Harry and Niall’s responsibility for, quote, “any damages caused by or related to paranormal forces and the pursuit thereof.”

Basically, if a ghost decided to take out that really expensive looking collecting of vases on the mantel, Liam wouldn’t be able to sue the show for compensation.

“No questions,” Liam replied, hands wrapped tightly around his mug. “I just want to know what happens from here.”

Harry nodded. “Basically, the agreement you signed states that we can be here up to a week in order to get the footage we need. Sometimes we get it all in one or two nights, but others we need as many as possible.” He offered a polite smile. “Since you aren’t living here, I hope it won’t be an issue if we do need the full week.”

Liam waved a dismissive hand. “I’m just hoping you find this thing and can convince it to move elsewhere, no matter how long it takes.”

“Which,” Niall chimed in, “no guarantees, by the way.” He returned his now empty mug to the tray before settling back in his chair, the frame groaning with the motion. “Even if we do make contact, whether the spirit moves on or not is out of our hands. We’re more interested in finding them, not getting rid of them.”

“I understand,” Liam replied glumly. “Though I’m really hoping he goes because I don’t think anyone will buy the place otherwise.”

“Look on the bright side,” Niall said, his blue eyes catching the sunlight filtering through the bay window. “If we can't, with ten bedrooms you could also turn this into a haunted bed and breakfast as a plan B.”

“Plan B&B,” Harry supplied helpfully, making Niall groan and Liam chuckle.

Looking slightly more relaxed, if no less worried, Liam put on a smile and looked between the two men. “Okay, now that that’s out of the way, what do you need from me?”

\-----

If Harry thought the first couple of rooms were beautiful, he was stunned by the rest of the mansion. Liam led them from the parlour to the library, stopping in the hall to point out where he had his spooky encounter. From there they went through the formal dining room (with, Harry noted, yet another fireplace) and into the kitchen with its sleek appliances. The porch wrapped all the way around the house, and through the windows Harry could see clusters of patio furniture and, beyond the railing, a spacious garden.

The second level contained five bedrooms, which Niall suggested they codename based on wall colour to keep them separate. It was evident that the cream bedroom was the master, complete with ensuite, but even the smaller bedrooms were magnificent with four poster beds and large windows overlooking the grounds.

The top storey held five more rooms, some empty as if they’d been used for storage until recently. The ones tucked under the slant of the roof were a bit smaller than those below, but still a good size. The room at the top of the tower, spacious and rounded, was being used as a sitting room, a squashy armchair tucked into a corner and facing the windows that ringed the entire room. Niall placed a tape mark right in the centre of the floor.

“That’s everything,” Liam said as he led them back downstairs, stopping at the bottom of the staircase and leaning against the railing. “I need to get some work done, but I’ll leave you with a list of names to interview and the spare key.” He nodded up the stairs, his full lips pressed tightly together as he swallowed. “The hotel in town is a bit shit, so you’re both welcome to claim a room and stay here while you’re filming.”

Niall looked to Harry in silent question, his blue eyes lit up at the prospect of not only getting to work in such a cool, creepy house, but getting to stay there as well.

Harry felt the same way. “Thanks, I think we will,” he agreed, offering his hand to Liam once more. “I’ll make sure you get a cheque for what we would have paid for the hotel.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Liam replied, flapping a dismissive hand. “Anyway, you have my number, and I’ll be by first thing in the morning to make sure you’re still alive.” He said it with a joking tone to his voice, but the pinched expression on his face let slip that he was actually concerned for their safety.

“Don’t worry, we’re professionals,” Niall assured him, clapping Liam on the shoulder and startling a laugh out of their host.

“Yeah,” Harry supplied, “this is nothing compared to spending a night in a cemetery or the Tower of London.”

Liam visibly shivered at the thought. “I saw that episode,” he said, shaking his head. “You couldn’t pay me enough to stay the night there.”

“That’s what this one said,” Harry replied with a smile, jerking his thumb at Niall. “As it turned out, I could.”

Liam bid them farewell after that, leaving Harry and Niall to settle in and start setting up their equipment. Harry claimed the tower room on the second level, the one with deep red walls—which should have seemed ominous but instead just made the room feel pleasantly warm—while Niall took the purple bedroom with the small ensuite. Their personal belongings taken care of, both men reconvened downstairs to set up their base of operations.

They chose the formal dining room, spreading their equipment out over the mahogany table, grouping together cables and sensors and cameras. The EMF detector and Spirit Box were charged and ready, Harry’s digital camera waiting to be used with a spare battery and memory card tucked into the bag. Now all they had to do was get all the cameras set up which, after so long of working together as a team, would take Harry and Niall no time at all.

“Finished!” Niall called about an hour later, fixing the last infrared sensor next to the spot where Liam had reported seeing the apparition. Ten cameras, five infrared sensors, and two motion sensors later, the house was completely wired and ready for filming. Their torches and tape recorders had fresh batteries, and all there was left to do was wait for the sun to go down.

Harry descended the staircase from where he had been positioning a camera in the room at the top of the tower, long hair sticking to his face with sweat. “Well, what do you say we go into town? Grab some lunch and interview the locals?”

Right on cue, Niall’s stomach gave a particularly loud grumble. “I’d say you’re right,” he replied, patting his stomach, “and you’re buying.”

Not bothering to argue, Harry grabbed his car keys and led the way out the door, leaving the house in peace for the time being.

 

\-----

 

Upstairs, in the top tower room, a figure watched them go before turning around and continuing to inspect the strange object mounted on the wall.

 

\-----

 

The townspeople, it seemed, were all too happy to chat with the lads about the old Payne mansion. Their waitress at the diner, the clerk at the grocery store where they picked up snacks, the old man sitting outside the coffee shop and reading his newspaper. They all had a story about the mansion, but there was a common thread through each one: they were all secondhand.

“Is Liam the only person who has actually seen anything?” Niall wondered, already digging into the crisps they bought despite having eaten lunch not half an hour ago.

“Seems that way,” Harry replied, chewing at his lip as he drove them back to the mansion. As far as investigations went, this one wasn’t shaping up to be too promising. A creepy old house and some rumours did not a haunting make. However, Harry remembered the fear in Liam’s eyes, the genuine way he recounted his ghost sighting. He trusted Liam, for whatever reason, and had a good feeling that they would walk away from that house with some really great footage.

\-----

Harry’s good feeling, it turned out, was bullshit.

They had returned to the house in time to take a nap and have a shower before it was time for lockdown. Harry woke up just as the sun was setting, the sky outside the panoramic windows bathing the red walls of his room in amber light. He dressed himself in his usual filming attire, black skinny jeans and a plain black shirt. He gathered his long, curly brown hair into a messy bun and checked his teeth for any remaining spinach from his salad. Satisfied with his appearance, it was time to head downstairs and get to work.

Niall was waiting in the dining room, already fiddling with their portable camera. “All right, Haz, where do you want to shoot the intro?” Niall asked, pointing the camera at Harry and inspecting the lighting on the screen.

“The foyer,” Harry decided, leading Niall to a spot just inside the entryway, the staircase climbing up behind him looking even more foreboding in the hazy twilight.

Niall readied his camera as Harry took his position and, with a thumbs up from Niall, the red light of the camcorder blinked to life and they were rolling.

“Hello,” Harry said cheerfully, smiling into the lens with his spinach-free teeth. “My name is Harry Styles, and along with my cameraman Niall Horan, I’m at a brand new location steeped in rumours and history.” He knew that at that point, a wide shot of the house would be cut in, along with some detail shots of the antique furniture and the old paintings lining the walls. “This week on _InSpectre Styles,_ we’re at the Payne Mansion in Ampleforth, England, and we’ve been asked not only to make contact with the resident spirit, but to convince it to move on from this world as well.” He stared into the camera for a few seconds before waving his hand to signal that Niall could stop recording.

“That’s where Liam’s interview will go,” Niall said, lowering the camera and switching it off to save battery.

Harry nodded his agreement, pulling out his mobile to check the time. “Let’s do one last equipment check, get everything switched on, and then we’ll go on lockdown.”

They separated, Harry heading upstairs for one last sweep and Niall heading to command central to check their monitors.

“Hey, Haz,” Niall’s voice crackled through the speaker of the walkie-talkie. “Head up to the top floor tower room, I’m not getting any video from the static camera there.”

“Roger,” Harry replied, clipping the walkie back to his jeans and heading up to the third storey.

Sure enough, the camera Harry had placed over the doorframe was off, the culprit a cable that had come unplugged. Frowning, Harry reconnected the cable, giving it a tug to make sure it was secure this time. “How’s that, Nialler?” he asked into the walkie, making a face into the camera.

“Well, the picture’s good, but there’s nothing to be done about your face, Styles.”

Harry barked out a laugh. “I’m on my way back down. Five minutes until lockdown.” He glanced around the little room once more before padding back toward the stairs. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong; he knew he plugged in that cable. Then again, it was the last one he did, so perhaps he’d been in too much of a hurry and made a careless mistake.

Still, he shivered involuntarily as he went down the stairs, certain that every dark doorway hid a pair of eyes watching him go.

 

\-----

 

Places always looked so much different in the dark.

The same fireplaces and sweeping doorways that were grand by day seemed menacing at night, draped in shadows that only seemed to stretch under the beam of Harry’s torch. Niall followed along as Harry gave the camera a tour of the house, watching everything through the sickly green glow of night vision.

“We haven’t seen any signs of activity yet,” Harry said into the lens, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think we should split up for a bit, so we can both be on the lookout.”

“As long as I don’t have the top floor,” Niall said from behind the camera. “The rooms up there give me the creeps.”

Harry laughed, taking a second camera from the dining room table and turning it on Niall. “Aw, little Niall’s afraid of running into a ghost on his own,” he teased.

“No, Niall’s afraid of being that far away from the door if he does run into a ghost on his own,” the Irishman corrected, rolling his eyes. “Your name’s in the title, it’s only right that you should take the highest risk.”

Harry faked a sigh, turning the camera around to record himself. “See what I have to deal with? Now accepting applications for a new cameraman. Send them to _InSpectre Styles_ at—” He cut off with a yelp, Niall having whacked him on the arse with a spare torch. “Okay, okay,” Harry relented, holding up his palms. “I’ll take the top floor.”

“Damn right,” Niall grumbled, glancing down at his watch. “Meet back down here in an hour?”

“Sounds good.”

With that they gathered their things and trudged up the stairs, Niall giving a salute as he peeled off at the second storey landing. Armed with his camera, two torches, and extra batteries, Harry continued on up to the top floor alone.

The steps creaked and groaned a way they hadn’t seemed to in the light, but Harry wasn’t scared; like Niall mentioned, they had stayed the night in far scarier places with very aggressive spirits. One playful ghost in a mansion was nothing to write home about. In fact, Harry was surprised it would even merit getting an episode of _InSpectre Styles._

“Hello,” Harry called out once he reached the landing. “My name’s Harry, and I’d like to talk to you. I’m not here to hurt you.” Nothing answered him except the quiet settling of the house, tree branches tapping against a window. If he listened very carefully, he could hear Niall moving around on the floor below. “Can you tap on something for me? Let me know if you’re here?”

Silence. It could take a bit, sometimes, for the spirits to gather enough energy to communicate (assuming they were willing), but it was never a good sign if there wasn’t at least some activity early on. Harry was beginning to think that maybe Liam had dreamt the whole thing after all.

Inexplicably drawn to the tower room, Harry wandered in and settled into the armchair, pulling out his digital recorder in hopes of getting some EVPs. He set it on the arm of the chair before turning the camera on himself. “I’m going to ask some questions now with an audio recorder running,” he explained to his invisible audience. “Sometimes ghosts can’t communicate in a frequency we can hear, but that can be caught on tape. We call these electronic voice phenomena, or EVPs.”

He cleared his throat before glancing around the dark room, his eyes struggling to find somewhere to settle in the murky black. “Is there anyone there?” he called, making sure to pause for an answer. “What is your name?”

The questions continued on in that vein, asking for any spirits to make contact, to make a sound, to say what they wanted. It was so deadly quiet that the sound of Harry’s walkie-talkie jumping to life nearly gave him a heart attack.

“Hey, Haz,” Niall’s voice crackled over the walkie. “The battery in my camera just completely drained.”

Frowning, Harry looked at the display on his camera, and sure enough the battery indicator was down to less than ten per cent. “Huh. Mine’s going dead too,” he replied, already reaching for the spare. It too had a little charge, but not enough. “Well, not much we can do if we can’t film. Let’s head back to the dining room.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration; this hunt was not going well at _all._

Back downstairs, Niall looked just as annoyed as Harry felt. He plugged his camera into a power supply. “At least we can still film while the battery charges,” he muttered, pressing record again and aiming the lens at Harry.

Sighing, Harry pulled back his shoulders and looked into the camera. “Niall and I both just experienced the batteries in our cameras going from fully charged to drained in a matter of minutes, including the spares. This could mean that any spirits here are using that energy to make their presence known, so things could get a lot more interesting from here on out.” He held a serious face for a beat before letting himself relax, slumping down in one of the Captain’s chairs at the end of the table. “Now what do you reckon we do?” he practically whined.

Niall shrugged, the motion rocking the large camera. “Want to play back our audio? See if any EVPs show up?”

“Might as well,” Harry said, reaching for his audio recorder and plugging it into his waiting laptop. He put on one pair of headphones and handed another to Niall, the pair of them sitting shoulder to shoulder with the volume turned up in hopes of hearing the faintest of voices.

Harry winced at the playback—he never really liked the way his voice sounded on tape, too slow and almost emotionless at times. Despite having his own television show, hearing himself talk was still something he could never get used to.

They listened in rapt attention to Harry’s queries, each one followed by pulsing silence until—

“Wait, go back,” Harry ordered, and Niall skipped back a few seconds to repeat the most recent question.

 _“Is there something you want to tell us?”_ Harry’s recorded voice asked again. There were a couple beats of silence, then, clear as a bell—

“Was that a _fart noise?”_ Niall asked incredulously, eyebrows all but disappearing into his hairline.

Harry stared at the screen, mouth open in shock. “Play it again.”

They listened as closely as possible, holding their breath and sitting perfectly still. Sure enough, moments after the sound of Harry’s voice died out, there was a loud, unmistakable raspberry sound.

“And that wasn’t you?” Niall asked.

Harry shook his head. “No, you can watch the playback. I didn’t hear or make that sound.” He rolled his eyes. “Though what I did to deserve such a rude noise, I couldn’t tell you.”

From then on, each question Harry asked was answered with a raspberry. It was certainly new to them, to have met a seemingly immature ghost, but the repeated sound seemed to indicate they were making contact with a spirit. They decided to play back the video of Harry’s EVP session, just in case the spirit made itself known in other ways as well.

Nothing out of the ordinary appeared on Harry’s handheld, but when they checked the static camera feeds, the one in the tower room had come unplugged yet again.

“All right, either we have a faulty cable or a prankster ghost on our hands,” Niall remarked, rewinding the recording to the last spot where there was video. The image on the screen was of Harry looking into the lens after fixing the feed the first time, then walking out of the room. As soon as his footfalls faded away, the screen went dark once more.

“Clearly that’s a special room for our ghost,” Harry said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling in the direction of the tower. “We should head up there when our batteries charge, take the Spirit Box.”

About half an hour later, Niall’s camera had charged enough for a quick Spirit Box session (ghost permitting), so the two trekked up the two flights of stairs once more. Harry immediately fixed the static camera’s cable, eyes shooting over to it now and then once he stepped away as if he might catch the ghost in the act of unplugging it.

Niall sat himself down in the armchair, camera aimed and ready. “All right, do your thing, Styles,” he said, leaning back in the chair as if he wasn’t working at all.

“Should replace you with a tripod,” Harry muttered as he adjusted the settings on the Spirit Box. He held the item up in front of the camera. “This device is called a Spirit Box, or sometimes a Ghost Box,” he explained to his future audience. “Basically, it’s been programmed with hundreds of words, and a spirit can use the box to communicate with us. Think of it like an audio Ouija board.” He turned the box on, filling the air with the low sound of static. “Is anyone here with us right now? Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”

There was no reply, just the hum of the Spirit Box, so Harry repeated himself once more.

That time, after a pause, a single word came from the box: “Willies.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide as he turned to Niall. “Did it just say what I think it just said?” he asked in disbelief.

“If you think it said ‘willies,’ then yes,” Niall replied, eyes equally round. “I didn’t even know that word was _in_ there.”

“Not exactly what most spirits are trying to communicate, is it?” Harry replied. “I swear, it’s like we’re dealing with the ghost of a twelve year-old boy between the fart sounds and the swearing.”

They tried a few more questions, and the answer was a swear every time. The whole segment of footage would be unusable, and just when Harry didn’t think he could be any more annoyed, the battery in Niall’s camera went dead once more.

“Haz, let’s just call it a night,” Niall suggested, giving Harry’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Maybe it just needs some time to get used to us.”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, not bothering to stop his frustration from bleeding into his voice. He turned off the Spirit Box forcefully before rolling his head, giving the muscles of his neck a much-needed stretch. “Not like we’re getting anywhere tonight.”

It happened like that, sometimes: spirits didn’t cooperate just because someone shoved a camera in their incorporeal faces.

Admitting defeat, the ghost hunters plugged in anything that needed to be charged and grudgingly packed their equipment away. The static cameras—the ones the stayed plugged in—would continue recording throughout the day, just in case, but they hadn’t placed any in the rooms they’d be sleeping in.

It was earlier than they’d usually turn in, but between uncooperative equipment and an immature spirit, neither one of them objected to throwing in the towel. Tomorrow was another night, and they’d be back at it with determination.

Now, though, they would retreat to their separate rooms. Harry’s things were right where he left them, his overnight bag resting at the foot of the bed. He rifled through it for his toiletry case before venturing to the bathroom down the hall.

It had clearly been remodeled, with updated fixtures and plumbing. There were two separate vanities, and a walk-in shower with a frosted glass door, far nicer than what the original washroom had probably looked like. Standing in a room like that, it was difficult to believe the house was more than a century old.

Face washed and teeth brushed, Harry returned to his room, floorboards groaning gently under his feet as he went. If there was a spirit still lurking around, it was minding its own business.

The bed was big and comfortable, the sheets smelling of washing powder, and despite being in a haunted house, Harry was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

\-----

It was early when Harry startled awake, the sky outside still blushing away the dawn. It took him a moment to realise where he was as his bleary eyes panned across the white ceiling and down the dark red of the walls.

When they landed on the figure of a man perched at the end of his bed, Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

The man was young, probably in his early to mid twenties, with caramel-coloured hair parted to one side and slicked down. He regarded Harry curiously with pale blue eyes, his arms folded over his chest. Harry bolted upright with a choked off gasp, scooting closer to the headboard as he tried to process what he was seeing.

The figure in front of him was quite obviously translucent, the red of the walls peeking through the white linen shirt and the pale skin of his cheeks.

“You’re in my room,” the man stated, arching an eyebrow. The voice was strong and clear, and if Harry wasn’t literally _looking through him_ he would swear that it couldn’t have come from a spirit. For all his time spent in haunted locales, he’d never actually seen an apparition take shape before. Mists and cold spots, he could handle; actually staring down the ghost of a man was something he was completely unprepared for.

“I’m– I’m sorry,” Harry stammered, unsure of how to respond.

The ghost looked him over impassively before standing. Upright, it was even more obvious that he was supernatural, evident in the way his feet didn’t seem to meet the floor properly and his chest was still with the absence of steady breaths—or any breath at all.

“Who are you?” Harry tried asking, cursing himself for not having his audio recorder nearby. He considered reaching for his mobile, but decided against it in case it startled the spirit.

The dead man frowned, his lips twisting downward in a pout as his eyebrows knit together. It looked like he was thinking very hard, as if he had to work to remember what he’d been called. He probably did, Harry reckoned. Judging by his clothes, it was likely no one had asked for his name in quite some time.

“Louis,” he said finally, tongue curling around the vowels with rusty familiarity. “My name is Louis, and this is my bedroom.” He flicked his eyes away from Harry to study the walls. “It’s the wrong colour now.”

Slowly, carefully, Harry pulled back the duvet and climbed from the bed, taking a cautious step closer to the ghost. “Hello, Louis,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “My name is Harry Styles. I was hired by Liam Payne to make contact with you. Do you know who Liam is?”

Louis tilted his head, considering. “I frightened him,” he replied nonchalantly. “I thought it was funny. He didn’t.” Everything he said came out almost emotionless, as if he’d forgotten how to speak out loud, to other people. Who knows, perhaps he had.

“Are you the only one here?” Harry asked, taking another step closer but halting in place when icy blue eyes snapped to him, narrowed and calculating. He held up his hands placatingly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You can’t,” Louis quipped, letting his gaze slide from Harry to look out the group of windows set into the curved tower wall. “But yes, I’m alone. The old lady doesn’t seem to have stuck around.” If Harry wasn’t mistaken, one side the ghost’s lips lifted in what could almost pass for a smile.

Harry nodded. “Ida Payne. She was Liam’s great aunt.” He watched as Louis considered that for a moment before continuing. “He wants to sell the house, but people have heard of you. They’re afraid of you.”

Louis’ face twitched, a slight grimace twisting his translucent features before returning to their stoic mask. “I’m used to most people not being able to see me,” he admitted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his brown trousers. “I miss being noticed. No one likes to feel invisible, even if they are.”

“Well, I can see you,” Harry said, resisting the urge to reach out and place a hand on Louis’ arm. Would it be cold? Would he be able to feel it at all? Or perhaps his hand would pass right through, like Louis wasn’t even there.

“Yeah,” Louis replied, wonder on his face as if he was only just realising that himself. “Yeah, you can.”

The room went silent as they regarded each other, Harry in disbelief that he was having an actual conversation with an apparition that didn’t require special equipment, and Louis with the need to learn more about the man he’d found sleeping in his bedroom.

It was Harry who broke the silence first, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Was it you unplugging the camera last night?”

“Yes,” Louis replied unapologetically. “I wanted to see what would happen. Didn’t exactly have those just lying around when I was alive,” he explained, turning from the window to face Harry. His countenance seemed to brighten and dim in the sunlight flickering through the windows. Harry was sure Louis was using an awful lot of energy to make himself visible; he wondered how much longer it would last.

“And the sugar?” Harry prompted.

If possible, he would swear that Louis’ cheeks actually went pink at that. “That’s just a bit of fun,” the ghost admitted sheepishly, his serious mask finally cracking and make him look young suddenly, too young to have died, and Harry wanted so badly to ask what had happened. What had ripped Louis from the earth so early, and in such a manner that it left him clinging to this plane instead of crossing over?

Harry swallowed thickly against the lump rising in his throat. “Why always the sugar, though?”

Louis laughed, the sound taking Harry by surprise. “Me mum always said that putting sugar in tea was a waste of both,” he said, his eyes taking on a faraway look, like he was listening to her say it in his head. “I think she’d be proud of my efforts at defending the tea.”

A smile broke on Harry’s face, and Louis mirrored it right back at him. For a second there, they were just two young men having a chat—separated by decades and death, but still enough alike to share a laugh. If Harry didn’t already want to find out what happened to the handsome young man—because he was, in fact, quite handsome—now he was almost desperate to.

He’d just opened his mouth to ask another question when the door to his room banged open, Niall charging in with wide eyes. “Haz, you okay? I thought I heard voices,” he said, looking around the room for whomever Harry might have been talking to.

Harry nodded, sweeping his hand in Louis’ direction. “I was just talking to Lou—” he started, turning to introduce the ghost.

“Who?” Niall asked, eyebrows drawing together as he frowned as the empty space in front of Harry.

Because Louis had vanished, no sign that he had been there at all other than the temperature of the air where he’d stood, just slightly cooler than that around it. “No one,” Harry replied sadly. He turned back to Niall, faking a smile to hide his disappointment. “I was just practicing some interview questions for later.”

Niall was still frowning, glancing back and forth between Harry and the spot in front of the windows. “Why don’t we get a little bit more sleep, then worry about the interviews,” Niall suggested, making his way back to the door.

Alone once more, Harry flopped back down on the bed with a groan. He should have told Niall what he’d seen, but he had the strangest feeling that he needed to protect Louis, to keep the ghost to himself. It was strange, ridiculous, but thinking about it was going to give Harry a migraine.

“Louis?” he called to the empty room after a few moments, quiet enough not to travel through the poorly insulated walls. “Are you still here?”

There was only silence in reply. Reluctantly, Harry went back to sleep, wondering if he’d wake up to a ghostly visitor again, and very much hoping so.

\-----

Louis was not there when Harry awoke a few hours later. It was after noon, judging by the length of the shadows stretching across the wooden floors, and Harry and Niall had some work to accomplish before nightfall.

Harry thought about his supernatural encounter all throughout his ‘morning’ routine. He tried to picture Louis, solid and breathing and warm, walking through the same halls and looking out the same windows. He wondered what the house looked like then, and who else lived in it. Did Louis have family? He’d looked rather young, but perhaps he even had a wife. What had cut his life so short, and who had been left to grieve in his wake?

Despite Harry’s busy mind, the ghost made no reappearance. Silently cursing Niall for scaring him away, Harry dressed in another pair of skinny jeans and a button down, leaving the top few buttons open to reveal his tattooed chest. His producer called it ‘sex appeal’; Harry called it ‘being comfortable.’ The whole time, he kept stealing glimpses in the mirror, turning around to look behind him, but despite the feeling of being watched, Louis was nowhere to be seen. Unable to stall any longer, Harry reluctantly headed downstairs to meet his partner.

Niall was waiting at their makeshift command centre, an _InSpectre Styles_ snapback tugged low over his blond hair. He twisted in his chair when he heard Harry approach, an easy grin on his face. “’Bout time! I thought I was gonna have to do all these interviews meself.”

“Like you would,” Harry snorted, lightly punching Niall on the shoulder. “You’d get two minutes in, say ‘fuck it,’ and take whoever you were interviewing for pints.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Laughing, Harry grabbed a piece of notebook paper from the table. On it was a list of names, all people who had stories to tell about the house and the unusual activity within. Some of them would be legitimate, though from experience Harry knew at least one just wanted their fifteen minutes of fame. Luckily, he and Niall both were very good at smelling bullshit.

“All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Niall said, hoisting himself from the chair and grabbing his camera bag. “The first person is meeting us at the diner in town. If he’s crazy, lunch is on you.”

“Lunch is on the show, but all right,” Harry agreed, grabbing his car keys. He shot one last look at the computer monitor, the split screen depicting the various static cams. Each one was as still as a photograph. With a sigh, Harry slung an arm around Niall’s neck and started toward the door. “Come on, Horan. Let’s see if we can get a little useable footage.”

If Harry had only looked back one more time, he would have seen a flicker of movement on the screen for the room at the top of the tower, followed by it dissolving into static.

\-----

The interviews were, for the most part, lacklustre.

They spoke to everyone from teenagers who had tried to sneak into the place to the people Liam had hired to do some of the renovations. Even among those who had been in the house, the stories were largely the same: “Well, I didn’t see anything, exactly. But _so-and-so_ did!”

It felt as if this entire assignment was doomed to fail, between an uncooperative ghost who never seemed to bother anyone and the lack of a single proper eyewitness other than Liam. In fact, Harry thought, it was a wonder that anyone knew he existed at all.

The last interview, though, was the one that salvaged the entire wasted day.

Her name was Colleen Healy, and she was eighty-six years old.

“I remember the family who built that house,” she said, gnarled fingers wrapped around a cup of tea. They were sat at a table outside the diner, having as close to a casual conversation as they could with a large camera looking on.

Harry nearly choked on his biscuit. “Sorry?” he managed, still coughing.

She smiled, her entire face crinkling up around milky brown eyes. “The Tomlinsons. Two of the daughters were close to my age. Twins.” Her smile fell abruptly, as if remembering something unpleasant. “Of course, they didn’t stick around long after the son died.”

 _Louis. She must mean Louis._ Harry leaned forward, desperate for anything she could tell him about the blue-eyed ghost. “Do you know what happened to him? Where his family went?”

She shook her head, staring down into her mug. “Sorry, love. It was many years ago, and my mind isn’t what it was. I just remember the rest of the family packing up and leaving.” She nodded her head in the direction of the mansion. “The house set empty for a long time after that, and people made up all kinds of stories. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that’s all you boys are chasing now—not ghosts, but tall tales we made up as children years ago to explain why such a big, beautiful house was empty for so long,” Colleen said, a hint of sympathy in her tone. She reached out and covered Harry’s hand briefly with her own before excusing herself, claiming exhaustion.

“Think it’s true, Haz?” Niall asked once the pair of them were alone, gleefully eating Colleen’s untouched plate of biscuits. “That we’re just here because some kids made up ghost stories?”

Harry snagged a final biscuit for himself before Niall could devour them all. “No,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

\-----

Their investigation that night began much like the one before. Niall and Harry decided to split up again, Harry immediately heading back to the room at the top of the tower. He plugged the static camera back in for what felt like the tenth time, then turned to address the empty room.

“Louis,” he called, his camera and audio recorder stowed away as to not frighten the ghost. “Louis, if you can hear me, can you please give me a sign?”

There was a _thunk_ behind him, and Harry didn’t have to turn around to know it was the camera cable hitting the floor yet again. Sighing, he turned around, but was surprised to see Louis standing there watching him.

“You came back,” Harry said, smiling.

Louis shrugged. “I never left.”

Nodding, Harry dared take a step closer. “Listen, Louis, what we’re doing here… We film haunted houses, right? People love to see flickering lights and hear bumps in the attic.” He gestured to the camera cable at the floor by Louis’ bare feet. “Objects moving, things like that.”

“What are you getting at?” Louis asked, looking down at the cable and then back to Harry.

Harry blew out a breath. “Do you think you can give us something? Anything, really,” he said. “Just something to film. You don’t need to speak or make yourself visible at all.”

Tilting his head, Louis regarded Harry thoughtfully. “That’s it? You just need me to make some noises and knock a few things over?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

The ghost shrugged again. “It’s nothing I wouldn’t be doing to be noticed anyway.” He smiled, thin lips parting around white teeth. “Try not to be too frightened, now,” he teased, and then he was gone.

With a chuckle, Harry plugged the camera in again before getting out his handheld. He was just about to journey into some of the bedrooms on this level when he heard Niall holler from the next level down.

“Niall!” Harry called out, hurrying down the stairs in search of his friend. “What is it? Are you all right?” He skidded to a halt outside the large room that had been in use as a lounge.

Niall was pressed to one wall, camera trained ahead as one of the lamps turned on and off all by itself, the curtains of the window next to it fluttering as if by some imaginary breeze.

“Hello?” Harry called, stepping into the room. “Is someone there?” He crossed to the lamp, shivering in the chilly air surrounding it. He reached out, fingers centimetres from the shade, when all at once everything went still: the lamp remained dark, the curtains hung limp.

Niall turned the camera on Harry, his grin visible in the glow of the LCD screen. “Well, Haz, I reckon we’ve found our ghost.”

Harry grinned right back, sending a silent _thank you_ to Louis for playing along. “Yeah, Ni, I’d say we have.”

Louis continued to play along, shutting doors behind them when they entered a room and knocking knick-knacks off shelves. Once or twice, it even sounded like he was pushing around furniture in the rooms above, and sure enough, when Harry would go investigate there would be a chair or end table out of place.

Once, when Niall was down on the first level, Harry saw a glow coming from under the closed door of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Curious, Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room was cold, the glow coming from a lamp sitting between two twin beds. Louis was sat on one of the beds, staring down at the floor. He glanced up at Harry with ice in his eyes. “What are you doing in here?” he spat.

Harry started, surprised at the sudden venom in Louis’ usually melodic voice. “I saw the light,” he explained, feeling suddenly like he’d intruded on something he shouldn’t have. He moved to turn his camera off, only to discover there was no need—the battery was completely drained. He knew that if he checked his audio recorder, he’d find the same thing.

“You don’t have permission to be in here,” Louis said, shaking his head. He stood, taking a few quick steps toward Harry. “You don’t have permission to be here at all!” he wailed.

“Louis,” Harry tried, taking a wary step back. “Louis, it’s okay, we don’t mean any harm. We were invited here, I promise, by the man who owns the home.”

“It’s _my_ home!” Louis yelled back, stomping his foot childishly. It didn’t make a sound. “It’s mine, and I’m tired of people intruding who don’t belong!”

Harry flinched at the anger in Louis’ voice, wishing suddenly he could shrink until he was out of sight. “Louis, please,” he murmured, but the sound of his voice only seemed to anger the ghost more. He advanced on Harry and thrust both hands forward, as if to shove him out of the room, and roared in frustration when they passed right through Harry’s chest. Then, without warning, Louis was gone, and Harry was left with a cold ache in his heart and guilt sitting heavy in his gut.

The rest of the night was quiet, Harry and Niall seemingly alone in the house (though Harry knew otherwise). Which was probably for the best; after Louis’ outburst, Harry’s heart wasn’t quite in filming any more for the evening, and Niall could tell. When he carefully suggested they call it a night, Harry was quick to ditch his equipment and shut himself away in his bedroom, the same one that had belonged to Louis in life.

Sleep was elusive, Harry’s mind replaying Louis’ shouts on a loop. For all the time he’d been hunting ghosts, he’d never actually met one before, and it had never occurred to him to ask permission to enter their home or film them. In Louis’ mind, this was still his family’s home, and Harry was trespassing. Harry squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to imagine himself in the same position, imagining strangers traipsing through the halls of his childhood home, changing things, claiming the bedroom he had grown up in. It felt, well, _awful._

“I’m so sorry, Louis,” Harry whispered to the darkness. There wasn’t a reply, but Harry had a feeling Louis heard him anyway. Satisfied for the present, Harry finally slipped away to a fitful slumber.

\-----

Morning came far too soon, sunlight streaming through the window and seeming to fall right across Harry’s face. He frowned, rubbing at his eyes sleepily before checking the time on his mobile: 8 AM. He’d barely been asleep for four hours, and most of that was spent tossing and turning. With a sigh, he threw back the duvet and pulled himself from the bed, knowing that sleep would continue to evade him and deciding he’d rather get up and be productive instead.

He scrawled a quick note for Niall and slipped it under the blond’s door before grabbing his keys and slipping out the front door in search of some answers. Maybe if he found them, his mind would let him sleep.

The library in town was a squat brick building, the hand-painted sign over the door chipped and fading. It was a long shot, but Harry was hoping it held what he was looking for.

Before he had a chance to go inside, however, his mobile started ringing.

He frowned down at the name of his producer on the screen. He’d forgotten about their scheduled phone call, and was certainly not in the mood for it at the moment. Reluctantly, he answered the call and brought the phone to his ear. “’Ello?”

“Harry,” a smooth voice replied down the line. “How’s filming going?”

Harry nearly snorted. That was typical of Christopher Gibson—straight to business, no time for pleasantries. “Actually, Chris, it’s not going well at all.”

“I’m listening.”

“There just isn’t much activity at the house,” Harry lied, switching the mobile to his other ear. “No solid witnesses. I think we should throw in the towel on this one, move on to the next location.”

He could hear Chris scoff on the other end of the call. “And waste the money we’ve already spent? I don’t think so. Listen, Harry, I don’t need to remind you that your contract renewal is coming up.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “Chris, are you seriously threatening my job over one bad episode?” he asked, not bothering to hide the ice in his voice.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” Chris answered coolly. “Either you deliver, or you get replaced. Make something up if you have to, Styles, but do your fucking job.” With that, the line went dead, leaving Harry staring at his mobile in disbelief.

Harry silenced his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket, a storm brewing in his mind. He’d done nothing _but_ deliver every season, making his show one of the network’s most popular. He was sought after to speak at conventions, and had more offers for haunted locations to film than he could possibly visit in a year. He was good at his job, dammit, and it sickened him how quickly his producer was willing to turn on him.

Still, Harry had other things on his mind at the moment. Namely, getting to the bottom of what happened to Louis, and where his family could have gone to. He was hoping the Ampleforth Library would have the answers he was looking for, tucked away in some dusty, forgotten corner with the many other ghosts of the town’s past.

The librarian, a short, robust woman with rosy cheeks and kind eyes, eagerly led Harry to the microfilm room. After making sure he was settled, she assured him she was just out front should he need anything. Alone in the cramped little room with decades at his fingertips, Harry started searching.

It took a while before he found anything of note, each page flashing before his eyes, disappearing when he saw no sign of a familiar name.

There, nestled in the corner of a paper from 1914, was the name Mark Tomlinson. Could he have been Louis’ father? There was no mention of family, the article only a short blurb about a council meeting, but it was something at least.

He saw it in the first issue from the next year. Tucked into a column among various ads, there was a birth announcement. Louis William Tomlinson was born to Mark and Johannah Tomlinson on December 24th, 1915. Harry couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of Louis’ name against the yellowed paper, proof that he had once lived. Harry had found him.

His interest fueled by the discovery, Harry continued to pore over years and years worth of newspapers. He found the birth announcements for several more Tomlinsons—four, to be exact, all girls—Charlotte, Félicité, and the twins Colleen had mentioned, Daisy and Phoebe.

Their names continued to crop up now and again over the years, but then Harry came across an article from 1939 that chilled the blood in his veins.

_Bereavement Notice: Mark and Johannah Tomlinson would like to extend their gratitude for the kind gestures after the death of their son, Louis William Tomlinson. He lost his long battle with tuberculosis on the eve of the tenth of February, at the age of twenty three years old. He is survived by his parents and four sisters. The family have the sympathy of all._

Twenty-three. He was only _twenty-three_ when he died. Harry printed the page with a heavy heart, the words no kinder on the fresh white copy paper than they were on microfilm. He clicked to the next issue with tears in his eyes, determined to find out the rest of the story, if for nothing other than to give Louis some peace.

Hours later, with all his research stacked neatly in a manila envelope kindly provided by the librarian, Harry headed back to the house. It was early afternoon, and judging by the stillness that met him when crossed the threshold, Niall was still asleep. That was fine by Harry; he was looking for someone else.

He crept up the stairs to the third storey, careful not to wake Niall as he passed the second floor landing, and made his way to the room at the top of the tower. The static camera was unplugged, as usual, but this time Harry left the cable where it lay.

“Louis?” he called out softly. “If you can hear me, I came to apologise.” He listened intently for a reply, and when there wasn’t one, tried again: “I brought something to show you?”

“What is it?” a voice asked, directly behind Harry’s left ear, making the man shriek and spin around.

Louis stood there, as calmly as ever, watching Harry with a quirked eyebrow.

“You scared me!” Harry accused, trying to catch his breath after his fright.

“Ghost,” Louis replied simply. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Now what did you want?”

“Oh, right.” Harry held out the manila folder, flushing when he remembered that Louis couldn’t take it. “I, erm, did some research today. At the library.” He pulled out the page with Louis’ birth announcement on it. “Look, this was you, wasn’t it?”

Louis squinted at the paper, leaning in close to read the small font. “Louis William Tomlinson,” he murmured, eyes wide like he’d just recalled something long forgotten. “That was my full name.” He glanced up from the paper curiously, meeting Harry’s eyes with translucent blue ones. “What else did you find?”

So Harry showed him. He pulled out each of his sisters’ birth announcements, watching Louis light up each time even just at the sight of their names. With each one he would quietly read the name aloud like he was committing it to memory, refusing to let it slip from his grasp once more.

Harry hesitated before he pulled out the next page. “Louis, do you remember dying?” he asked, wincing at the way Louis’ face immediately fell in response.

“I remember being sick,” he said softly. “My mother was so sad. She wouldn’t let the girls near me, and I missed them so much.” His eyes shone as if they were full of unshed tears. “I couldn’t even remember their names until you told me, but I have never forgotten how much I missed them.”

Letting out a heavy breath, the air stale from how long he’d held it in, Harry pulled out the page containing Louis’ obituary. Louis read it with his usual impassive mask, nodding once to indicate he was finished.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked helplessly, unsure of how exactly one comforted a ghost.

Louis shrugged before turning away, doing a strange floating sort of walk to cross the windows. Harry allowed him his space, taking it as a good sign that Louis hadn’t vanished once again.

“If I was twenty-three,” Louis said eventually, voice thick. “How old would I be today?”

“It’s 2016, so you’d be a hundred years old,” Harry told him. “A hundred and one in December.”

“I’d have died of old age by now,” Louis remarked sadly. Suddenly he spun around, fixing Harry with wide eyes. “My sisters. They– they were younger. Are they still—”

Harry shook his head sadly. Once he’d found the names of Louis’ sisters, it wasn’t difficult to go online and look for information. “They’ve all passed on, I’m sorry.” He thrust his hand back into the envelope, pulling out the remaining papers. “But Louis, look. They all led long, happy lives, and died surrounded by their families.”

He held up each page one by one for Louis to read. The obituaries detailed the wonderful women his sisters had been, each one listing their numerous children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Louis soaked in every word with wide eyes, his mouth open in a round little ‘o.’

“They were all happy, then,” Louis said finally, blinking hard a few times.

“It certainly sounds like they were,” Harry agreed.

Louis was still for a moment, quiet and focused as if there was a battle going on inside his head that Harry wasn’t privy to. Then he tilted his head with a large, lazy smile. “I think it’s about time I give you a tour of my home. I’ve been a terrible host.”

Harry blinked owlishly in confusion. “Erm, Louis, I’ve already seen the house. Remember? I’ve been here for two days.”

Louis just laughed, a warm, crisp sound that made Harry’s pulse quicken. “You got the tour of the house, yes, but you haven’t seen my _home._ ” He offered his arm for a moment before letting it drop, forgetting for a second that Harry couldn’t actually take it. “Come along, Harry. I’ve much to show you.”

Harry couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he followed along.

The first stop was the dining room so that Harry could remotely disable the static cameras. He wasn’t sure if Louis would show up on the recordings, but he didn’t want to take the chance. This felt like something sacred, something only for him that he didn’t want to have to share with the world. That taken care of, he allowed Louis to take him through each and every room of the house.

“My sisters and I played on the rug in front of that fireplace,” he said, pointing the lounge. “My father was so angry at me once because I accidentally got too close and burnt my best shirt.” He took Harry into the butler’s pantry, a “prime hide and seek” location, and showed Harry where the stray dog he’d snuck into the house had once chewed the railing at the bottom of the stairs. It had long since been repaired, but the way Louis told the story was so vivid that Harry swore he could still see the teeth marks in the wood.

On the second storey, Louis stood at the windows overlooking the back garden and pointed out the tree he spent countless hours climbing. “Fell out of it once, broke me arm,” Louis said, rubbing his right elbow. “Dad always threatened to cut it down after that, but he never did.”

They visited each of the bedrooms, Louis explaining in detail how each had looked when he’d been alive. The wall colour, the location of the furniture—Harry closed his eyes and let Louis’ descriptions wash over him, immersing him in a past long since hidden under layers of paint and dust.

As they approached the door to the last bedroom, the one that set the scene for Louis’ outburst the day before, the ghost hesitated. “I need to apologise to you for how I acted yesterday,” Louis admitted. “I was rude to you, and I’m sorry.”

Harry shook his head firmly, wishing for the hundredth time he could reach out and touch the spirit. “No, you were right. We never asked your permission to be here, and I’m incredibly sorry for that. I’m asking it now, and if you tell me to leave again I will.”

Louis blinked in surprise at the sincerity in Harry’s tone. “You can stay,” he said gently, a smile quirking up the corners of his lips. He nodded toward the closed door in front of them. “This was Daisy and Phoebe’s room. They could have each had their own, but insisted on sharing anyway.” He laughed, a faraway look in his eyes. “They wouldn’t let anyone else in except for me. It was the only place they could escape to when Charlotte and Félicité ganged up on them, and I would usually sneak in and play with their dolls with them.” His eyes were sad when he looked back to Harry. “To see you just waltz in to _their_ room was just… too much.”

“I understand,” Harry said softly. “You were a really good big brother to them.”

Louis nodded, his chin trembling slightly. “Yeah. I was.” Gritting his teeth, Louis reached out and placed his hand on the doorknob. Harry could see how hard he was concentrating, the lines in his forehead and bloodless veins standing out against his skin. The air around him warmed for a split second before the door swung open before them.

“It takes a lot of energy, but I can move things.” Louis reminded Harry, seemingly amused at the shocked expression on Harry’s face.

Louis perched on one bed and Harry on the other. Louis chattered on happily about the times he’d spent with his sisters, playing on the floor and making a fort by pulling a duvet over the space between the beds. Harry was only half-listening, however, his mind too busy to give Louis his full attention. There was something nagging at him, something he was desperate to ask, and he had to do it before he lost his nerve.

“Louis,” he started, fiddling with the hem of his shirt nervously. “I need to ask you a question.”

Louis tipped his head uncertainly, still smiling from the story he had been telling about his youngest sisters. “What do you want to know?” He sounded so light, so carefree, and Harry hated himself a little for what he was about to say.

“Why are you still here?”

The expression on Louis’ face changed immediately, his eyes hardening and mouth pressed into a line. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

Harry huffed a breath. It was too late to go back now. “I mean, I understand wanting to be near your family, but they’re all gone now. Why stick around?”

Louis let out a humourless laugh. “They’re the ones who left first, honestly. Moved out just a few months after the funeral. My mother told the girls it was just too hard to live here without me.” He shook his head, tossing his caramel-coloured fringe across his forehead. “I couldn’t follow them. I tried, but I can’t leave the house. So I decided I would wait here in case any of them ever came looking for me.”

“But—”

“But they’re dead now. Right.” Louis’ lips tilted in a sad smile. “I’m still going to wait for them, Harry. I don’t know what lies beyond this life, and I hope they’re somewhere all together again, but if there’s a chance that even one of them remained behind like I did, then I’m going to wait right here.”

Harry’s heart clenched at Louis’ words. “Don’t you think they’d rather you join them? I doubt your family would want you trapped in this house forever.”

“Don’t pretend to know a thing about my family or what they’d want,” Louis snapped, leaping from the edge of the bed and hovering in front of Harry. “You have no way of understanding, and you never will.” With an angry growl, Louis disappeared without a trace, not even a wrinkle in the duvet he’d sat on to mark his presence.

Harry fell back on the bed with a groan, flinging one hand over his eyes. It seemed like one minute he and Louis were fine, and the next Harry had done something unforgivable. He wondered if all ghosts were this temperamental, or if that was something purely Louis.

Filming that night was a total loss. There wasn’t even any wind, let alone spirit activity. The tower room camera stayed plugged in, dutifully recording absolutely nothing, and the Spirit Box spat out nothing but static in response to Harry’s questions.

“At least we’re getting decent sleep on an investigation, for once,” Niall said, trying to make light of the situation as they headed to their bedrooms for the night.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed half-heartedly. “Good night, Ni.” He could see the concern on his friend’s face as he shut the door between them, but he wasn’t ready to explain that their night was shot because he pissed off the resident ghost.

Sleep was fitful, and fleeting, and filled with images of ghostly children playing with dolls around Harry’s feet, taking no notice of him as if he were the ghost.

\-----

With no one to interview and no research to do, Harry had the next morning to himself. He could hear Niall in the lounge watching telly, most likely thanks to the Netflix password Liam had left on a sticky note on the remote. Harry tried calling out for Louis, hoping (once again) to apologise, but the ghost showed no interest in making an appearance. Resigning himself to a quiet day in, Harry decided he’d take a quick shower and then join Niall in the lounge.

The shower was the walk-in kind, with a fixed head as well as a detachable handheld, and for the age of the house the water pressure was fantastic. Harry luxuriated in the spray, letting the bathroom fill with steam as he washed away the sweat and frustration of the day before. The water pounded heavily against the sore muscles in his neck, making him groan softly in relief. He was so relaxed, so at ease, that his hand almost started creeping toward his cock to enjoy the shower even further. Then he remembered where he was, and that it was likely at any given moment that he wasn’t alone, and quickly withdrew his hand.

He washed briskly after that, soaping himself up and rinsing one last time before turning off the water and grabbing the towel slung over the shower door. He wrapped it securely around his waist before stepping out, the feeling of being watched leaving him uneasy.

At first glance, it seemed as if Harry was all alone. Then his eyes flicked to the mirror above the sink, the glass foggy from his hot shower. There, in the condensation, was a crudely drawn penis.

Harry wouldn’t put it past Niall to sneak in and draw a willy on the mirror, but he had a feeling someone else was responsible for this particular masterpiece. “Louis?” he called, hoisting his towel just a little higher on his waist.

Sure enough, the ghost flickered into view next to the counter. He looked sheepishly at his drawing before smiling at Harry. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

Harry shook his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You did make the Spirit Box say ‘willies’ straight away, and I didn’t even think it knew that word.” They both chuckled together, Harry growing silent when he looked down at his wet, naked torso. “Erm, were you in here while I was showering?”

Louis hung his head, his pale cheeks seeming to glow in embarrassment. “I, um. Might have been.”

“The whole time?” Harry asked, one eyebrow quirked.

“The whole time,” Louis agreed, suddenly unable to look Harry in the eye. “I wasn’t trying to spy on you, I swear,” he insisted, wringing his transparent hands.

“What were you trying to do, then?”

Louis looked deeply uncomfortable, his forehead creased and chest heaving with breaths he didn’t have to take. “I was curious,” he admitted, voice strained.

Harry blinked at the response. “Curious? About what?” Louis mumbled something in reply that Harry didn’t quite catch. “Louis, come on. About what?”

“I’ve never seen another boy naked before!” he shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation before immediately clapping them over his mouth. He backed away from Harry hastily, not even seeming to notice he was standing halfway through the countertop.

The answer surprised Harry. He looked down at his body once more, still dripping with a towel slung over his waist, and back to Louis. “Never?” The ghost shook his head. “And you wanted to see me?” He could feel a flush rising in his cheeks.

Louis rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. Not exactly spoiled for choice, am I?” He crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “Look, don’t make this into a big deal.”

Still clutching the towel, Harry made his way over to the countertop Louis was sticking out of. He hoisted himself up to sit on it, looking Louis straight in the eye. “Is that something you were curious about when you were alive? Other boys?”

Louis looked away, clearly deeply uncomfortable with discussing it. “It wasn’t something you talked about back then. I’ve seen the news. Gay marriage, people coming out and being celebrated for it… That would have been unthinkable for me. I never even got to kiss a girl, let alone a boy.” He shook his head. “So no, I tried not to think too much about it, because it was something unattainable for me.”

“And what do you think now?”

Louis snorted, eyeing Harry incredulously. “Now? I’m _dead_ now, Harry. What good does having a big gay revelation do?”

“You’re still capable of thinking and feeling,” Harry argued. “I would think it would feel liberating, discovering something new about yourself after all this time.”

“Maybe,” Louis admitted, his crossed arms becoming more like a cocoon for his body instead of a shield. “Anyway, I’m sorry I spied on you. I won’t do it again.”

Harry wanted so desperately to scoot close to the man, put an arm around his shoulders and draw him close, but he knew he’d be met with nothing but cold air. “It’s all right. Just, ask next time, okay? Just because you’re a ghost doesn’t mean you don’t have to respect people’s boundaries.”

Louis offered up a crooked smile. “Right, so no spying on Niall either, then,” he joked.

Harry guffawed. “Nah, mate, you wouldn’t be impressed, trust me,” he said with a wink, earning a giggle from Louis. Harry felt a moment of guilt for implying that Niall was less, er, equipped than he actually was, but it made Louis laugh, and what the blond didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

There was a companionable silence once the laughter died out. Louis was the first to break it, clearing his throat as he finally extricated himself from the countertop. “Thank you, Harry. I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about that sort of thing before.”

“It’s my pleasure, Louis,” Harry replied warmly. “No one should have to face that sort of thing alone. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to.” He registered the way Louis’ eyes widened slightly at his confession.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Louis seemed suddenly flustered, looking everywhere around the room except at Harry. “I’ll, ah, leave you to it, then. Important ghost business.” And just like that, he was gone.

Harry couldn’t seem to get their conversation out of his head for the rest of the afternoon. He pictured a younger, living Louis, spending his nights lying awake in bed and wondering what was wrong with him that he was curious about other boys. Louis said he’d never even kissed anyone. He’d died before he had gotten to know what it felt like to be intimate with someone, to share his body and heart, to fall in love.

It was depressing, really. Harry wished more than anything he could do something for the lonely ghost, life cut too short to have truly lived. But he couldn’t bring back the dead, and he couldn’t exactly kiss a ghost, so all he could do was be there to listen to Louis for as long as he was a guest in the mansion.

Liam stopped by just after lunch, lugging in a few dusty old boxes. “The original family left a few things when they moved out,” Liam explained, depositing the boxes on the floor of the foyer. “Aunt Ida’s had them sitting in storage for years. I thought you might like to go through them, see if you can find anything that might help you.”

Niall gingerly opened one of the boxes, coughing as the dust he disturbed billowed up in his face. “Man, this stuff is ancient. It’s probably full of spiders and asbestos and things like that.” He coughed once more for effect. “I’m gonna let you handle this one.”

“Thanks, Nialler,” Harry said, rolling his eyes as he intercepted the box Niall shoved his way. He peered inside curiously, heart pounding in his chest at the knowledge that these might have been Louis’ belongings, things that he touched or loved in his life. It felt too intimate to paw through the boxes with Niall and Liam watching him, so Harry scooped one up and headed for the stairs. “I’m going to sort through this stuff somewhere I can spread out a little. Thanks, Liam!” he called, heading upstairs without waiting for a reply from either man.

He decided to use one of the empty bedrooms, saving his own room from the dust and potential spiders. This room was painted a deep purple and had belonged to the eldest of Louis’ sisters, Charlotte, though Louis had told him it had been a pale yellow colour back then. There was plenty of floor space and a large round chair in the corner, which Harry let himself fall into with the open box in front of him.

There wasn’t much inside: a saucepan, a flannel, a few mismatched buttons. There was a worn, deflated football, brown and rubber instead of black and white, which must have belonged to Louis. And underneath that—

Harry gently pulled the book from the box, eyes wide. It was yellowed with age, the pages brittle and crumbling, but the contents seemed to be in relatively good condition. He stared down at the photo album in disbelief. This was Louis’ family, his memories. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready to see photos of the blue-eyed man as he’d lived, laughing and smiling, not knowing that his life would be tragically cut short.

Taking a deep breath, Harry opened the book.

The photos were old, some faded and others blurry, all in black and white. There were pictures of the house when it was new, of a young couple standing in front of it. There were a couple pictures of a crinkly-eyed baby, then a grinning little boy with light hair and sparkling eyes. Harry watched Louis grow up with each page he turned, saw the way he smiled at his sisters and whoever was behind the camera. There were more pictures of the sisters after that, and a few posed photos of the whole family, but it’s the last one of Louis that caught Harry’s eye.

He was standing in the back garden, the same football Harry had found clutched under one arm. It was new, then, still bright and unstained, and Louis looked absolutely radiant, like he could leap off the page and into life at any moment. He appeared to be the same age as his ghost, meaning that the Louis in the photo wouldn’t live for much longer. Still, photo Louis grinned proudly into the camera, his new ball on display, with no idea of his impending death.

Harry gently closed the book, pushing it away with tears in his eyes. He’d known Louis had lived, but seeing evidence of it, seeing what he had looked like in life, touching objects that had belonged to him… It was all too much to handle. He needed to clear his mind, to think happier thoughts, or else it felt like his heart might sink through the floor.            

A nap seemed like a good bet. Not even bothering to go to his own room, Harry crawled up into the bed, laying himself down on top of the thick purple duvet and letting sleep take him to a place where life was more kind and death was more fair and he didn’t have to think about either.

The first thing Harry noticed upon waking was that it was much later in the day. The sun filtered through the gauzy white curtains in rose gold light, making the room feel as sepia-toned as the photos in the album on the floor.

The second thing Harry noticed was that he was wholly and incredibly hard.

He shifted with a groan, moving to press the heel of his hand down against the bulge in his jeans. He couldn’t remember what he dreamt about, or if he had at all, but he had a feeling that a certain blue-eyed ghost had taken to haunting his dreams as well.

Listening for a moment, Harry could make out the sounds of the telly in the lounge down the hall. Satisfied that Niall was otherwise occupied, he carefully unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down along with his pants, just enough to allow his erection to spring free.

The first slide of his hand down the shaft, dry and warm, had a quiet moan slipping past Harry’s lips. He hadn’t been with anyone in a while, too busy traveling for the show to have a real relationship and not too keen on random flings, but he managed to take care of himself just fine.

Drops of precome eased the slide as Harry worked up a rhythm, stroking himself slowly and firmly, palming the leaking head on each upstroke. His breathing grew fast and shallow as he tugged himself off, getting closer and closer to that glorious precipice with each practiced twist of his fist, and he knew release wasn’t too far off—

“Harry?”

Harry’s hand stilled, eyes flying open in shock. Louis had appeared just inside the door, like he’d floated through it only moments before. He was staring at Harry’s groin with wide, round eyes, mouth mimicking the same shape.

“Louis, oh my god,” Harry gasped, trying to throw the duvet over himself before remembering he was laying on it. He settled for covering himself with both hands as best he could. “What are you doing here?”

Louis looked truly ashamed of himself, finally ripping his eyes away from Harry to stare a hole through the floorboards. “I wanted to talk to you. I called for you as soon as I came in the room so you wouldn’t think I was spying again, but you were…” he flicked his eyes to Harry’s cupped hands before looking past them to Harry’s flushed, sweaty face.

“No, shit, I’m sorry Louis,” Harry said, silently willing his erection to subside. He was so hard it was painful, had been so, so close to coming. “This is your home, and I shouldn’t have– I didn’t mean–“ He threw his head back against the pillow with a frustrated groan. “Could you just go, and I’ll call for you when I’m decent?”

Louis tilted his head, considering. He dragged his eyes back down Harry’s body once more, lips pressed together thoughtfully. “Actually, I think I’ll stay if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sorry?” Harry replied, not even caring how strained his voice sounded. Surely Louis couldn’t be suggesting what it sounded like.

“I told you, I’m curious,” Louis said shyly. “I’d quite like to watch, if that’s okay.” He gave Harry a wink that contained far more attitude than a spirit had any right to give. “Come on, indulge a hundred year-old virgin.”

Harry pursed his lips as he weighed out his options. On the one hand, Louis was asking permission instead of remaining invisible and watching anyway. And he was, er, had been close to Harry’s age when he died, so that part wasn’t weird.

The being asked to masturbate for a ghost part, though. _That_ bit was pretty fucking weird.

“All right,” Harry conceded, deciding that he had honoured stranger requests from far less attractive—albeit living—blokes. He slowly moved one hand away, leaving the other wrapped around his length. “What do you want to see?”

“Just do what you were doing,” Louis instructed, moving to perch at the foot of the bed. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

And, no, that part wasn’t going to fly. If Louis wanted a show, Harry was going to damn well give him one. “Please tell me you’ve done this before, at least,” Harry teased, slowly starting to stroke himself once more. It wasn’t going to take long, not with how close he’d gotten and with the added excitement of having an audience.

“Yes, Harry,” Louis retorted, trying to sound annoyed but failing as he followed each movement of Harry’s hand. “But I’ve never seen someone else do it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his pale throat as Harry choked back a moan.

Harry was used to being on camera for a living. Not for those kinds of movies, sure; but if there was one thing he understood, it was playing to his audience. He quickened the pace of his hand, letting his head loll backward and tucking his full lower lip between his teeth. His eyes fell closed as he started thrusting into his slick fist, but every so often he would sneak a glance at Louis’ face. Each time the ghost was paying rapt attention, and once Harry thought he saw Louis licking at his pale pink lips.

His little show wasn’t meant to last, though, and Harry felt the familiar coil of heat in his pelvis that meant the end was near. He arched his back, moaning obscenely as he picked up the pace of his strokes, and used his free hand to ruck up his shirt and dig his short nails into the toned muscles of his abdomen. If he had time, he’d reach down further, maybe even finger himself open for Louis (because surely the ghost had never tried that during his life), and the thought of Louis watching Harry fuck himself on his fingers is what finally burst the ball of white hot tension inside of him.

He cried out as he came, letting his load slide down over his knuckles and using the added slickness to give himself a few more tugs before the sensitivity was too much to bear. Then, spent and boneless, he opened his eyes and gave Louis his most dazzling smile.

Louis’ eyes were comically wide and fixed on the mess coating Harry’s hand. He was leaning forward slightly, as if barely holding himself back from reaching out to touch. Harry could tell the instant Louis remembered that he couldn’t, his expression shuttering as he gave his head a gentle shake. He pasted on a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Thank you, Harry,” he said, his voice soft and sincere.

“My pleasure, Lou.” The nickname slipped out unbidden, but if the way Louis turned his head bashfully was any indication, the ghost was rather pleased with it. Louis’ eyes widened when he caught sight of the pile of items on the floor.

“That’s my football!” Louis exclaimed, leaping from the bed and sinking to his knees to examine the object closer.

Harry sat up, wiping his hand on his shirt and tucking himself back into his jeans. “Yeah, Liam brought a box of things over that your family left behind when they moved. Here,” he said, sliding off the mattress to join Louis on the floor. “Look at this.” He pulled the dusty album into his lap, opening it up to the page where Louis was clutching the football.

Louis’ face cycled through a range of emotions, from surprise to sad nostalgia, as he took in the photo. “That was right before I got sick,” he explained, studying every section of the image in detail as if he’d forgotten what he’d looked like. “My father got me a brand new football. It was my favourite thing to do—set up makeshift goals in the yard and stay out there until Mum had to drag me in by the ear to wash up for dinner.” He turned to Harry, a far more genuine smile spreading his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’d try to make my sisters play, too, but they’d get their dresses dirty and Mum would throw a right fit.” He chuckled, watching some invisible scene play out in his head that Harry wasn’t privy too. “God, I miss them so much.”

“They’re in here too,” Harry told him, reveling in the look of unbridled excitement on Louis’ face. He flipped back a few pages so that Louis could see.

“My girls,” Louis whispered in awe, stroking his fingers over a picture of his siblings even though his fingertips sank right through it. He cleared his throat thickly, blinking hard, before glancing up at Harry. “This is Charlotte, the oldest. We called her Lottie,” he explained, pointing to a blonde girl with large eyes. “The brunette is Félicité, and the twins are Phoebe and Daisy.”

Harry let Louis talk him through the entire album. He heard the stories behind Louis’ parents trying to wrangle five children for a posed photo, and learned how to tell the twins apart. He let Louis talk and talk and talk, his heart aching for the ghost with each turn of a brittle yellow page.

“Thank you so much, Harry,” Louis said once they had finally scoured the entire album. “I was starting to forget what they looked like. I really, really needed to see their faces.” His voice was thick, watery. Harry wondered, not for the first time since meeting Louis, if ghosts were able to cry.

“You’re welcome, Louis,” Harry replied. “You deserve to get to remember your family. They’re the reason you’re still here.”

Louis opened his mouth, about to speak, but was cut off by the sound of Harry’s alarm going off. He silenced it quickly, giving Louis an apologetic glance. “Unfortunately, that means it’s time for me to start getting ready for tonight. I’ve been in here for ages; I’m sure Niall’s probably wondering if I’ve died.” Harry winced, cursing his poor choice of words. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis replied, floating up to a standing position. “About tonight. I’ll be around if you, you know, need me. For your show.”

Harry stood as well, stopping just short of the door. “I appreciate that, Lou,” he said genuinely, placing his hand on the knob and tugging it open.

“Oh, and Harry?”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, turning around to look at the ghost one more time.

Louis was looking down at the old football and the photo album, a smile still playing across his thin lips. “I’m glad that I stayed here,” he said, glancing up through his long, translucent lashes. “If only because I got the chance to meet you.”

Harry’s heart caught in his throat, suddenly too choked with emotion to even think of formulating a response. Instead, he gave Louis a watery smile, nodded, and slipped down the hallway to try and focus on doing his job. His job that would be over in a few short days.

It was strange, Harry thought to himself as he showered and dressed, that just a few short days ago he wanted nothing more than for this investigation to be over with. Now, though, he found himself dreading having to leave.

\-----

“Well, ready for another night of twiddling our thumbs?” Niall asked, readying his camera before lights out.

Harry just grinned knowingly at him as he checked over various pieces of equipment. “I don’t know, Niall. I have a feeling tonight could be a lot different.”

Niall scoffed, but was singing a different tune when he moved to check the video feeds of the static cameras. “Huh. Hey, Haz, look at this.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, wandering over to the array of screens and hooking his chin over Niall’s shoulder. “Oh. Huh.”

For once, the camera in the tower room was still recording, the cable having stayed in place since Harry plugged it in before bed the night before.

Niall grinned at the screens before turning to plant a messy kiss on Harry’s cheek. “You might be right, Harry. Maybe our luck is about to change.”

They started off filming with a monologue from Harry, talking a little bit about the history of the town and segueing into what he’d learned about the house’s former inhabitants. “Through research, we managed to find out that a young man named Louis died here of tuberculosis in 1939,” Harry said, looking solemnly into the lens. “Could it be the restless ghost of a life cut tragically short that still haunts the house to this day?” It was overdramatic, but his audience ate stuff like that up. He couldn’t help but imagine Louis looking on from wherever he was hidden, rolling his eyes at Harry.

They moved into the parlour, Harry with a pair of torches in hand. He stood in front of the fireplace, in the same spot where Louis had pointed out playing with his sisters as children. “We’re going to attempt to contact the spirit using these torches,” Harry explained to the camera, holding one up and twisting the back until the slightest touch would light up the bulb. “One torch will mean yes, and the other no. I’ve made it to where the lightest touch will activate the light.” He placed the torches on the mantelpiece, making sure they wouldn’t roll away. Once Niall gave him a thumbs up that he had the lights in frame, Harry started asking questions.

“If there’s anyone here with us,” Harry called, letting his eyes skim the darkness even though it was completely dark outside of the light from Niall’s camera. “Can you touch one of the torches to let us know?”

Niall and Harry waited, watching the lights for something to happen. A minute crawled by, and Harry was just about to try asking again when one of the torches flickered to life, going out again a second later.

Harry grinned, knowing Louis had made good on his promise, and Niall whooped excitedly behind the camera. Thrilled at finally having some direct interaction to film, Harry kept talking.

“Thank you for making contact with us. I’m going to ask you some questions, if that’s all right,” Harry said, addressing where he imagined Louis was standing by the fireplace. Though Louis wasn’t currently visible, Harry could picture him stood there with one hip popped out, eyes bright despite the lack of light in the room, waiting patiently for Harry’s next question. “If you could, please use the light you just touched to mean ‘yes,’ and the other to mean ‘no.’ Do you understand?”

The ‘yes’ light flickered to life once more, staying on for a beat before going dark.

“Am I speaking with Louis? The young man who used to live here?” Harry asked. It was strange trying to pretend he was talking to a stranger instead of a ghost he was almost starting to consider a friend.

‘Yes,’ Louis said via the light.

“Thank you, Louis,” Harry said sincerely. “Can you tell me, is there anyone else here with us now?” Harry’s heart was already aching before the ‘no’ torch came to life.

He asked a few more standard questions, his heart no longer in it after thinking of Louis being here alone for so many decades, waiting for a family who would never return. Something must have shown on his face, or in his voice, because Niall interrupted him, lowering the camera to give Harry a concerned look.

“Hey, Harry, why don’t we try the Spirit Box?” he suggested kindly, the look in his eyes promising to ask Harry about his demeanor later on. “Since, ya know, we’re actually getting a response tonight.”

Harry nodded halfheartedly, not sure it would be any easier hearing Louis ‘speak’ through the device but not having an excuse not to use it. He gathered up the torches, casting a lingering glance at the cold spot just slightly to the left of the mantel that he hoped said, _I’m sorry for this._ There was the faintest sensation of something cold against his hand as the torch in that palm turned on and stayed on. It could have been a coincidence, just the way he was holding the touch-sensitive torch, but Harry had the feeling it was a message: _It’s okay._

Gathering the Spirit Box and a digital recorder, Harry and Niall trudged up the stairs to the tower room. Niall stopped just inside the doorway, peering around his camera and squinting. “Harry, did you leave a window open the last time you were up here?”

Frowning, Harry stepped over to the windows set into the curved wall of the tower. Sure enough, one was opened a few centimetres, the thin curtains waving gently in the breeze the opening allowed.

“No,” Harry replied, shutting the window gently. “It must have been the ghost.” He turned around, leaning against the warped wood of the windowsill and flicking on the Spirit Box. “Maybe that’s the spirit’s way of telling us this room is important somehow.”

The Spirit Box crackled to life, emitting the white noise that ghosts could manipulate into words. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later when the box emitted a cheery greeting. “Hello.”

Niall crowed behind the camera and Harry pretended to look shocked. “We are actually speaking to a spirit right now,” he said excitedly to the audience at home, pumping up the enthusiasm to make good television. “Louis, is that you?”

“Me,” the Spirit Box replied.

“Ask it how it died,” Niall said excitedly, reminding him that, unlike Harry, this was one of the most active ghost encounters his cameraman had ever experienced.

“Him,” Harry corrected automatically, before asking: “Louis, do you know how you died?”

The Spirit Box hummed and buzzed before replying. “Sick. Lonely.”

“Sick and lonely,” Niall repeated, his eyes wide from behind his camera.

Harry nodded, addressing the viewers. “According to Louis’ obituary, he died of tuberculosis in the 1940s. Louis,” he called again. “Are you lonely now?”

He braced himself for the answer, hating himself for even asking, but the response startled him. “Not anymore.”

“Whoa,” Harry breathed.

“Yeah,” Niall agreed, nodding his head, his eyebrows raised all the way to his hairline. “I can’t decide if that’s terrifying or sweet.”

Harry swallowed, his throat dry and clicking around the sudden lump in it. “Is– is there anything else you want to tell us?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly. He only hoped the camera wouldn’t pick up the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

The Spirit Box was all static for a few moments, and then: “Thank you. Harry.”

Harry was stunned, staring down at the box like it might explode at any moment. “Oh my god, oh my god,” Niall chanted excitedly. “Dude, it said your name! Oh my god, Haz.”

Trying to slow his breathing, Harry flicked off the Spirit Box and looked up into the lens, sure he was paler than usual in the night vision glow. “Erm, wow,” he whispered. “The spirit actually addressed me by name, a first for us here on _InSpectre Styles._ We’ve clearly made a connection with the ghost of this young man.” He made a _cut_ motion across his throat when he finished speaking, gesturing for Niall to stop filming.

Niall lowered his camera, an exuberant grin barely contained on his face. “I can’t believe it. Harry, that was incredible.” He whooped, spinning in a circle as if he was unable to contain his excitement. “What do we do now?”

Harry lowered his eyes to the Spirit Box, now silent in his clammy palms. “I think I’m done for the night, Nialler.” It was too much; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. These entities, they’d always been more of ideas than people. Louis, though… Louis had shared with him, talked to him. He’d let Harry into his home, confessed secrets he’d been unable to in life.

Using that connection, that intimacy, for something as inconsequential as a television show… It felt like he was making a mockery of Louis. And he really wasn’t in the fucking mood anymore.

Niall pressed his lips into a hard line. “Harry, man, is something wrong? Because this,” he tapped his camera, “this has the potential to be the best episode we’ve ever filmed. You sure you don’t want to put a few more hours in tonight?”

Harry offered a half-smile. “I’m fine, Ni. Just need to lie down, I think.” He could see the worry creasing Niall’s dark brows, the worry flickering in his eyes. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Niall allowed, reaching out to give Harry’s shoulder a squeeze. “You know where I am if you need me, yeah?”

“Thanks, man. Good night.” With that, Harry made a beeline for his room, not even bothering to take his equipment back to the dining room to charge. Instead, he deposited everything on the nightstand before stripping down to his boxers and flinging himself down on the bed. He grabbed for one of the pillows, pressing it over his face to muffle the groan of frustration that escaped his throat.

What a position he’d found himself in. The feelings he was having for Louis—for a _ghost_ —were causing him to question everything. Now that he’d met Louis, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to continue with the show. How many spirits had he hurt in the past by intruding on their homes, dredging up painful memories, and then using the manifestations of that anguish as fodder for his show? It made him feel sick when he really thought about. Ghosts were real, and once were living people with hopes and dreams and feelings, and all Harry was doing was exploiting them for his own gain.

It all came back to Louis. The blue-eyed ghost floated into Harry’s life and completely changed everything. There was only one night of filming left, and then what? How was Harry supposed to go on with his life, knowing that Louis was sitting alone in this big empty mansion on the slight chance that his family might need him?

 _If I ever end up a ghost,_ Harry thought, his troubled mind calming enough for sleep to get its fingers beneath the frayed edges of his thoughts, _I’ll come back here and keep him company._

He fell asleep picturing Louis reaching out for him, Harry finally able to place his own translucent hand in Louis’ palm.

\-----

When Harry woke up, he was startled to find that he wasn’t alone. Louis was sat at the end of the bed, cross-legged, watching Harry sleep with a serene little smile on his face. His smile widened when he noticed Harry blinking awake.

“Good morning,” Louis said softly, his voice a light rasp.

Harry stretched, taking care not to kick Louis despite knowing it was impossible. “Morning,” he replied, his own voice gravelly with sleep. “I thought we had a talk about spying on people.” There was no edge to his tone, just a teasing glint in his eyes to let Louis know he didn’t actually mind.

“You looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you,” Louis explained, looking down at the quilt. A sheepish smile appeared on his face as he traced patterns in the duvet.

Harry couldn’t help but smile in return as he watched the ghost. In the hazy light peeking in the windows, it was easy to forget that Louis was a ghost at all. He looked young and vibrant and alive, sitting so close to Harry that Harry could practically feel the imagined heat of the young man’s body through the covers.

Then the memory of the night before sent the illusion crashing down around Harry in a rain of shame and regret.

“Louis,” he began, his mouth feeling dry around the name, “about last night. I just wanted to—”

Louis cut him off with a raised hand and a shake of his head. “Don’t, okay?” he pleaded, sounding suddenly small as he lifted large eyes to meet Harry’s. “Just… Not yet.”

Not sure what Louis meant by that, Harry nodded anyway, observing the way the ghost seemed to sag with relief at the gesture. Then, without warning, Louis moved to perch on the bed beside Harry, his body not making the mattress dip in the slightest.

“I want to tell you something, and you’re free to stop me at any time.” Louis looked proper embarrassed, his cheeks gone red and his hands twining together nervously in his lap. “If I try very hard, focus all my energy, I can possess objects for a short period of time. Move them.”

Harry nodded; he’d seen Louis in action, opening doors and windows, and he certainly couldn’t forget the damn static camera cable that came unplugged every five minutes.

Louis hesitated, then drew in a deep breath out of habit rather than need. “If I use that same energy but possess, say, a person or an animal, I can move them as well.” He swallowed hard. “Even feel what they’re feeling, to an extent. I want to try something, if it’s all right with you.” Louis reached out a hand, placing it on top of Harry’s as if to prove his point.

The feeling of Louis’ weight on his hand startled Harry breathless. He stared at the point of contact, mouth gaping open uselessly. The touch was cold, but solid; real. Harry snapped his gaze back to Louis’ nodding fervently. “Anything,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

Louis squeezed Harry’s hand in reply. “You can stop me at any time,” he said seriously, before looking down at their joined hands. With what appeared to be a great amount of concentration, Louis furrowed his brows and allowed his hand to sink into Harry’s.

The sensation was cool, tingly, as if his hand had fallen asleep. Harry watched in awe as Louis took control, flexing the fingers experimentally. Harry’s cool palm moved to cup his own cheek, thumb tracing his bottom lip almost reverently.

“You can feel that?” Harry asked, pressing into the touch.

“You’re so warm,” Louis replied, almost a moan. He moved Harry’s palm down the other man’s neck, dragging it along the smooth, solid lines of his chest. “Harry, can I please touch you?”

Harry wrinkled his brow in confusion; Louis was already touching him. Then his brain caught up with the true meaning behind Louis’ request.

 _“Oh,”_ Harry gasped as Louis moved his fingertips over a nipple, his body arching involuntarily against the cool touch. “Yes,” he agreed easily, wanting as much as Louis could give him. He threw back the cover with the hand he still had control of, leaving him exposed to Louis with his boxers doing little to hide his growing erection.

Louis hesitated, but a whispered ‘please’ from Harry was all it took to kick him into motion. Emboldened, he helped Harry tug down his boxers, taking hold of Harry’s dick as soon as it was freed and giving it an experimental stroke.

Harry bit his lip so hard he thought he might bleed. He’d had that same hand on his cock so many times, but it had never felt so incredible before. It was as if Louis being in control added another layer to the sensation, like he was both jacking himself off and someone else was as well. It was nothing like he’d ever experienced before. He fisted his other hand in the bed sheets, willing his body not to make this embarrassingly short.

Louis’ face was poetry as he continued to stroke Harry, quicker and tighter as he built his confidence. Blue eyes flickered between Harry’s blissful expression and his throbbing dick, as if he was unsure which one he’d rather focus on. He started to experiment, giving the head of Harry’s dick a twist on the next upstroke and grinning at the noise it drew from Harry.

Harry slapped a hand over his mouth, moaning against his sweat-dampened skin to muffle the sound. He really, _really_ didn’t need Niall walking in on this.

The sound only seemed to encourage Louis more, the ghost using Harry’s palm to spread precome down the shaft and stroke him mercilessly. He brushed against Harry’s sensitive balls, gave the base of Harry’s cock a quick squeeze, before moving his attention back to the leaking tip.

It was almost too much. The sensation of himself and Louis touching him simultaneously, the knowledge that he was the only person Louis had ever touched… the combination was heady enough to have him close to the edge, pinpricks of light flickering at the edges of his vision as his climax hurtled closer and closer. Then, without warning, Louis stopped, leaving Harry writhing and breathless on the bed.

“Do you trust me?” Louis asked, his voice rougher and deeper than Harry had ever heard, his blue eyes nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. Harry nodded, but Louis shook his head. “I need you to say it, Harry. I have to have permission.”

“I trust you, I trust you!” Harry cried, forgetting all about Niall, forgetting anything other than the need to have Louis touching him again.

Louis’ face pinched with emotion before quickly smoothing back out. Then he was laying his body over the top of Harry’s and sinking down, letting himself fit into place like a hand into a glove.

The cold, tingly feeling prickled Harry’s skin from head to toe, and he knew that Louis had possessed his entire body.

 _You can tell me to stop at any time._ Harry felt rather than heard Louis’ words. _Understand? You’re in control._

“Yes,” Harry replied, and then, “please.”

This time when Harry’s hand returned to his cock, little bursts of electricity filled the air. He could feel himself, both in his palm and underneath it, but even more than that he could feel _Louis_ feeling it. It was like the lines between them had blurred, Louis and Harry bleeding together until they were one messy person, both experiencing this from their own and each other’s point of view. Harry could sense the way the first burst of pleasure Louis felt as he stroked Harry’s cock once more, perhaps the first pleasure he’d felt in over seventy years. Having use of both Harry’s hands now, Louis didn’t stop at jacking him off. Instead, he reached the other hand down to fondle Harry’s balls, then even further to graze over his entrance.

“Oh my god, Louis,” Harry gasped, his whole body feeling like a coiled spring, and with only a few short jerks he was spilling over his fist, coming in spurts that painted his stomach and chest in milky white. He could hear Louis in his head, moaning as he stroked Harry through his orgasm.

Then, without warning, Louis was gone.

Harry had a sensation of falling back into his own body, his limbs feeling suddenly heavy now that they were his alone once more. His chest heaving, a layer of sweat covered his skin as his eyes darted around the room for a glimpse of the ghost.

Of course, it was possible that Louis had simply used so much energy that he wasn’t able to make himself visible again for a while. Harry had a feeling that, as soon as he recharged, Louis would come back. Still, it didn’t stop him from lying there panting, recovering from the best orgasm of his life and trying not to feel too empty without the presence of another person inside him.

\-----

Later, once Harry had cleaned himself up and gotten dressed, he knew it was time to talk to Niall.

Louis had yet to reappear, but Harry wasn’t worried. He knew the ghost was still close by, just unable to show himself. If he didn’t show before long, though, it would be pointless to film tonight. Although, truthfully, Harry wasn’t planning on filming anyway, and Niall deserved to know why.

The blond looked understandably wary as Harry led him into the parlour to talk. It was getting close to evening, and the sky outside was dark and heavy with the promise of rain. It made the entire conversation feel rather ominous, if Harry was honest.

“But it’s our last night,” Niall protested as soon as Harry told him he didn’t want to film. “We got some good stuff last night, mate. We have to give it one more go.”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably in the armchair. The next part of this conversation was truly going to test the limits of their friendship. He and Niall had known each other for years, long before they decided to audition for a ghost hunting show on a whim and happened to get cast. However, telling your best friend you were not only seeing ghosts, but had been sexually active with one, well. Harry figured there was a ninety per cent chance that Niall was going to be Googling mental institutions before Harry even finished speaking, and not creepy, abandoned ones.

“I need to tell you something,” Harry said finally, the air feeling thick with electricity, like the atmosphere just before a lightning strike. “But before I do, I promise you I’m not crazy.”

Niall just gave him a look, crossing his arms over his chest and settling back in his chair. “Haz, we literally talk to ghosts for a living. You can’t get much crazier ‘n that.”

He had a point. Still, Harry built himself up for the potential fallout before he even started speaking. Then he told Niall everything—from seeing Louis with his own two eyes, to talking to him, to having the ghost show him around. He spared Niall the details of that morning, instead explaining the emotional connection he and Louis had managed to form over the last few days.

“You’re telling me that you’re dating a ghost,” Niall said flatly once Harry had bared all, looking torn between concern and disbelief. “More specifically, the ghost who haunts this mansion.”

“We’re not dating,” Harry protested, feeling a flush rising in his cheeks at the thought. “He’s just special, Ni. I don’t know how to explain it. I just don’t want to use him anymore, him or any other ghosts.”

Niall was quiet for a minute, considering. “You realise this is going to cost us our jobs, right? Having a ghost hunting show sort of, you know, depends on hunting ghosts.” He didn’t sound mad at all, just a little shocked. Harry couldn’t really blame him.

“I know,” Harry said with a nod. “That’s why this needs to be your decision too, because I won’t be responsible for you losing your job against your will. We’re a team, yeah?” He brightened a little at Niall’s answering smile. “I’m just done filming people without their consent, living or dead. Louis made me see that.”

Niall’s face softened, his head tilting as he observed his friend. “Are you in love with him?” he asked gently.

Harry balked at the question, eyes going wide as Niall’s words slammed into his chest like a tonne of bricks. “What? No, I—” _Yes,_ his mind supplied, though he didn’t dare give it voice. “I can’t be in love with a ghost, can I?” Harry asked dejectedly.

Niall shrugged. “I don’t know, mate. Stranger things’ve happened.”

As if on cue, the sky chose that moment to burst wide open, a torrent of rain pounding down over the old house. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed closely by a growl of thunder that rattled the windows in their frames.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not filming tonight after all,” Niall said, looking away from the bay window to offer Harry an easy grin. “With this weather, you’d probably have a panic attack on camera again, like you did at the Ancient Ram Inn.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You won’t let that go, will you? You or the fans, either one.” He stood up from the armchair, casting one last look at the sickly green pallor of the sky before offering Niall a hand. “Come on, let’s watch some telly and eat junk food like we used to do in uni.”

“Don’ have to ask me twice,” Niall replied cheerfully, taking Harry’s hand and getting to his feet. Before letting go, though, he pulled his friend into a brief hug, pressing a quick kiss to the spot in front of Harry’s ear. “Love you, ya weirdo, no matter what.”

“Love you too, Ni.”

“Enough to let me pick what we watch?” Niall called hopefully, already heading up the stairs to the lounge.

“Not quite!” Harry laughed, dashing after the Irishman in an attempt to reach the remote first. It was that or be stuck watching an entire season of _Bar Rescue._ Again.

He expected to find Niall already seated on the sofa, prepared to have to wrestle the remote from the other man’s hand. Instead, as he rounded the corner into the doorway, he ran straight into Niall’s back.

“Hey, Harry?” Niall said tentatively, seemingly unbothered by Harry running into him full-tilt. “I think your boyfriend’s here.”

Too surprised to even correct Niall’s choice of words, Harry peered over the blond’s shoulder into the lounge.

Louis was stood there in the middle of the room, regarding the pair of them with cool curiosity. It was evident by the way he was paler, less opaque than usual, that he hadn’t fully recharged his spent energy yet. But he was here, and he smiled the instant he made eye contact with Harry.

“Hello, love,” he greeted Harry warmly before turning his attention back to Niall. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met properly. I’m Louis.”

Niall just gaped at Louis, jaw hanging open uselessly and no words coming out. Chuckling, Harry decided to step in. “Louis, this is Niall, my best friend and cameraman.” He gave Niall a wink. “Well, former cameraman, as we’ve decided not to do the show any longer.”

Louis’ eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

“We’ve done enough dredging up painful memories to last a lifetime,” Harry explained, slinging an arm over Niall’s shoulders to break the other man’s trance. “Maybe we can find something positive to do instead.”

“Yeah,” Niall finally chimed in hoarsely, still staring at Louis in disbelief. “Christ, you’re really a ghost.”

“In the flesh. Er, not,” Louis amended with a laugh. He clapped his hands together, the motion as silent as any other he’d made. “Well, then, what are you lads up to tonight if you won’t be waving your gadgets at me?”

“We thought we’d watch something on Netflix,” Harry explained, taking advantage of Niall’s state to snatch up the remote control.

Louis furrowed his brow. “What’s a Netflix?” he asked.

Harry and Niall laughed. Louis did not.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Niall asked incredulously. “Didn’t you ever watch telly when the old lady was alive?”

“She only watched soap operas and the news,” Louis replied, casting a sideways glance at the television. “And I can tell you everything you want to know about _Downton Abbey_ ; she never missed an episode.”

Harry giggled as he turned on the TV and switched it to Netflix. “Just wait, Louis. We’re going to show you what you’ve been missing out on. Right, Ni?” Harry asked.

Niall looked between the two of them, a small smile blooming on his lips. “Actually, I might just go watch something on my laptop, leave you lads to it.” He dared to give Louis a playful wink. “I’ve seen what Harry calls good television, and another _Say Yes to the Dress_ marathon is not something I care to experience.”

“Hey,” Harry whined. “I don’t make fun of you for your stupid bar shows.” He did. That wasn’t the point.

Niall shook his head, laughing. “Whatever you say, Haz. Louis, it was a pleasure to officially meet you. Don’t let this one make you watch anything you don’t want to.” With a little wave, Niall disappeared down the hallway, his retreating footsteps followed by the soft _snick_ of his bedroom door being closed.

“I suppose it’s just me and you, then,” Louis said, settling down on the sofa.

“Guess so,” Harry replied, feeling nervous all of a sudden. This was the first time they’d been alone since they’d— and it made this feel important, somehow. Like a first date.

He shook the thought from his head, trying instead to choose something for them to watch. What on Earth did you watch with someone who was alive when seeing a film in colour was still a novelty? Louis had never even seen an episode of _Doctor Who,_ having been dead for twenty years already by the start of the original series.

“Why don’t you pick?” Harry suggested. “You’ve never been able to before. I think it’s your turn.”

Louis seemed really pleased by the idea. He patted the spot next to him, wasting no time in instructing Harry what screens to look at once they were both seated. He made Harry let him read descriptions of various movies and shows, occasionally asking questions when he didn’t understand a word in the blurbs.

“What’s e-mail?” Louis asked, after reading the synopsis for _You’ve Got Mail._ Harry tried to explain, but Louis stopped him after ‘electronic correspondence with a flippant, “Oh. I’m not in the mood for science fiction.”

Eventually, feeling overwhelmed at all the choices, Louis told Harry to put on one of his favourites.

“I can do that,” Harry agreed, deciding on _Love, Actually_ and curling up against the arm of the sofa. He wanted so badly to reach an arm out, to have Louis snuggle up against him as the film played, but he’d already been given more than he ever thought possible.

So, instead, he was content with stealing glances over at Louis’ amazed face, answering questions when necessary and explaining things when Louis was too shy to ask. At one point, the screen went fuzzy for a moment. Harry assumed it was because of the storm outside, until he felt the gentlest press of lips against his shoulder. He looked over in surprise, but Louis had already turned back to the television, a smile tugging up the corners of lips that suddenly seemed just a little brighter than the rest of his face.

One film turned into two, and then three, the hours slipping away from them as the night wore on. It hit Harry then that he was leaving the next day, back to London and his flat and, most likely, job hunting.

As if Louis could read his thoughts, the ghost turned to him, eyes pale and sad. “I wish I could keep you,” he murmured softly.

Harry smiled sadly, raising a hand to stroke Louis’ cheek. His hand didn’t make contact, of course, but the gesture was received all the same. “I wish I could stay.” He indicated the television screen, where credits were rolling for the last movie. “Come on, it’s not goodbye yet. We’ve got time for at least one more film.”

Louis’ frown twitched upwards. “Okay,” he said, watching Harry scroll through the list of things to watch. They had hours together yet, sure, but for someone with eternity stretching out in front of him, that was no time at all. Still, he watched the movie Harry picked, laughed when it was appropriate and asked more questions than was strictly necessary. And when he turned to check on Harry only to find the other man asleep, Louis let himself curl into Harry’s side as much as possible, trying to imagine the warm, solid body beneath him rising and falling with even breaths.

If he had to let Harry go, then at least he would have something to remember on the lonely nights ahead.

\-----

All the equipment was packed away by the next day at noon. Their beds were made, the static cameras all taken down, and the command centre dismantled. All that was left was saying their goodbyes, then Niall and Harry would be on their way.

But first, Harry had a phone call to make.

“What is it?” Chris demanded as soon as the call connected. He sounded angry. He would sound even angrier once Harry was through with him.

“I’m fine, Mr. Gibson, how are you today?” Harry asked blandly, no longer worried about his boss’ incredibly short temper.

“Cut the crap, Styles. I sincerely hope you’ve gotten your act together since our last call.”

“Actually, sir, that’s what I want to talk to you about,” Harry said, taking a steadying breath to calm his nerves. He never cared much for confrontation. “Niall and I, we didn’t get any usable footage.”

“I beg your pardon?” Chris’ voice was steely, cold. The silence before a detonation.

“We weren’t able to get anything on film. I’m sorry.” He wasn’t. He also wasn’t sorry about having Niall delete any footage they’d captured of Louis’ activity. “And, uh, I don’t think we’re going to renew our contracts, either.”

“You’re bloody right you aren’t,” Chris snarled. “I expect both of you to come clear out your desks the minute you get back to London.” There was a clatter, as if Chris kicked something on his end of the line. “You’re throwing away the fucking opportunity of a lifetime, Styles, I hope you know that.”

Harry sat up as straight as he could, more for his benefit than his producer’s, and replied with his head held high. “With all due respect, sir, I think I’m making my own opportunity.” With that, he ended the call, effectively cutting off Chris’ string of curses.

“Well? How’d it go?” Niall asked, popping his head into the bedroom Harry had called his for the past week, which Louis had called his for far longer.

Harry smiled up at his friend, pocketing his mobile as he stood up from the bed. His bag was all packed up, and he slung it over a shoulder, letting the weight of it ground him. “Well, we’re officially fired,” he said, joining Niall at the door.

Niall shrugged. “Good thing neither of us are strapped for cash, innit?” He lead the way back down the stairs, waiting at the bottom for Harry to silently say his goodbyes to the old house. “What do you think you’ll do, then? Back in London.”

Harry paused beside him on the landing, looking up the staircase. “Maybe I’ll write a book. Explain why I quit the show. Tell the truth about ghosts.”

“I think you’d be great at that, Haz,” Niall said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “I think I’ll see if I can find camera work on another show. I am a pretty awesome cameraman.”

“You really are,” Harry agreed with a laugh. “Come on, Liam will here any minute.”

Liam was right on time, letting himself into the house with his ever-present smile firmly in place. “Well, how’d it go?” he asked, looking them over as if he’d expected them to have been mauled by a supernatural being since the last time he saw them.

“Afraid we didn’t get much,” Niall said with a sly smile at Harry. “Guess your ghost didn’t quite care for us.”

Liam looked disappointed, but kept his grin intact. “Ah, well. Guess I’ll just have to try and sell the house as is,” he said, glancing around the place. “Who knows, maybe someone will find the idea of a haunted house charming.”

“Yeah,” Harry echoed hollowly, following Liam’s eyes around the room. “Maybe they will.”

While Liam and Niall said their goodbyes, Harry ran back up the stairs, feigning a forgotten item in his bedroom. There was no such item, but there was a blue-eyed ghost waiting for him, exactly as they’d planned.

“Will I ever see you again?” Louis asked, seeming to flicker in and out as if it was taking everything he had to stay present.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, wishing more than ever that he could pull Louis into his arms. “It depends on who buys the house, if someone does.” He sniffed, trying his best not to cry. “I’ll try to come back.”

Louis looked down at his bare feet, the lines in the floorboards visible through them. “I understand if you don’t. I’m just a ghost.” He sounded so lost, so sad. “No one else ever came back for me.”

It felt like Harry’s heart was breaking into a million tiny pieces, the very atoms of it sinking into the wood and fabric around him so that he might remain here in this place with Louis after all. “You’re more than that, Lou. So much more,” he whispered, finally letting a hot tear roll down his cheek.

Louis looked up then, his own eyes filled with pearly tears that would never fall. “Yeah, but you said it yourself: You can’t love a ghost.” He didn’t give Harry time to respond, swooping in to press a kiss to Harry’s lips before disappearing altogether. “Goodbye, Harry,” his voice said, coming from all around him and inside him all at once.

Harry didn’t let himself cry as he headed back downstairs, nor as he bid farewell to Liam. He held it together while they buckled themselves into the car and pulled out of the driveway, Niall fiddling with the radio from the passenger seat.

But the second they were on the highway, headed back toward a life without Louis, he let himself cry. He cried so hard that Niall made him pull over and switch seats. He cried until he was gasping and hiccoughing, his chest aching and his eyes sore and swollen, but not a bit of it made him feel any better. It made him feel worse, thinking about Louis back at the house, alone and unable to cry for all eternity, so eventually he stopped crying and just let his mind wander.

He had a feeling he knew right where it would go, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

\-----

Liam couldn’t keep from humming as he scurried around the house, dusting here and straightening there. After months and months on the market, the house finally had a buyer, and today was the day he was handing over the keys. The ‘for sale’ sign out front was replaced with one that said ‘sold,’ and it was only a matter of time before Liam was able to pluck it from the ground altogether.

Not everyone was as happy, however. Though Liam hadn’t seen the ghost since that fateful night what seemed like ages ago, he could feel the spirit’s presence like a cloud over the house. He didn’t know if ghosts could mope, but this one certainly did.

Louis was most certainly moping. As much as he dreaded spending every day alone, he dreaded the thought of learning to share his space with someone new all over again even worse. He hated the thought of his home going through more changes, more renovations, until even he couldn’t remember what it used to look like. He didn’t want to hear laughter in the halls, replacing the voices of his sisters that had grown so faint in his head.

He didn’t want to be alone, but he would be if it meant holding on to their memories for a little while longer.

He could hear voices down in the foyer from where he sulked on the landing, dangling his feet through the bars like he did as a child. That Liam fellow was there, talking excitedly to whoever had bought the house. Louis wasn’t listening too closely, trying desperately to enjoy the quiet for the few seconds it remained.

There was a jangle of keys being passed over, and Liam’s voice once more—“Don’t forget, you have my number if you need anything.” Then the front door opened and closed, followed shortly by the sound of gravel crunching as Liam drove away from the house for the last time. Louis would almost miss him; he’d been fun to scare.

The new owner was walking around downstairs, no doubt scoping out the place and planning all the changes they were going to make. Heaving a sigh, Louis floated to his feet and decided he’d better go take a look, see who he was going to be stuck with for the next few decades or so.

The foyer was empty, as was the dining room and kitchen, so Louis headed into the parlour. The new owner was there, running a hand over the stone mantle, humming softly under his breath. He turned abruptly, as if sensing Louis’ presence, and Louis couldn’t help but gasp as the man swiveled to face him.

“Harry?”

Because it was Harry, looking just as he had when Louis last saw him months ago. His green eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners by the width of his smile. “Louis,” he breathed, letting his hand fall from the mantle as he stepped closer to the ghost.

Louis blinked hard, half convinced he was seeing ghosts himself. “W–what are you doing here? The house is sold—”

“To me,” Harry interrupted. “I had money set aside from the show, and I sold my flat.” His lip trembled, like he was fighting back tears. “I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else living here with you.”

“You’re really staying?” Louis felt like he couldn’t breathe before remembering that he didn’t need to. “You came back?”

Harry nodded solemnly, now so close that he could touch Louis if the ghost were solid. “I came back for you,” he said, running his fingers along Louis’ jawline just as he had that night they spent watching movies. “I was wrong, Louis. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the second I left.”

Louis’ mind was reeling as he tried to process what Harry was saying. Harry was going to live here. With him. _For_ him. “Wrong about what?” Louis asked, barely daring to imagine the answer.

Harry chuckled, warm and low, the smile on his face going just the slightest bit shy. “I suppose you can fall in love with a ghost, after all.”

It took every bit of energy Louis had, but it was worth it for the couple seconds he made himself solid and flung himself into Harry’s arms. He knew moments like that would be few and far between, meant to be savoured while they lasted, but Louis had a feeling that they’d be worth the wait.

After all, he’d waited that long for someone to come back for him, and someone finally did. Even if it wasn’t the someone he always thought it would be, Louis Tomlinson had a hunch that maybe, just maybe, he was going to enjoy his afterlife just as much as he had the first one.

\-----

Just shy of a hundred years later, the townsfolk would tell stories about the old house on the hill. It was the place schoolchildren dared each other to visit in the dead of night, that adults whispered about in the diners and shops. Their stories were always secondhand, but it never seemed to dull their effectiveness, keeping everyone in fear of the old Styles Place.

And of course, no one could bring up the abandoned house without mentioning the pair of ghosts that reportedly inhabited it, always ready to unleash mischief on anyone who dared to step inside. Rumour had it that they were lovers in life, too enamored with one another to part even in death.

  
Well, they were half right, at least.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! [Here ](http://icanhazzalou.tumblr.com/post/152120054041/title-they-never-quite-leave-author)is a link to the tumblr post. Please come say hello! Be warned, pending on the reception, there may very well be a time stamp for this fic at some point, because I'm a little in love with the idea of Louis teaching Harry all about being a ghost. And more ghost sex, of course.
> 
> If you're curious, here is the original prompt:
> 
> Casper AU: Harry is a famous ghost investigator. Liam has a ghost problem in his family home. Louis is a ghost (whether he's a relation of Liam or not is up to the writer) who is friendly, but has no intention of leaving.
> 
> I hope I did it justice. <3


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